Meanwhile, Back in the Tunnel
by marylinusca
Summary: Vignettes, based on 'Hogan, Go Home'.
1. Meanwhile, Back in the Tunnel

Meanwhile, Back in the Tunnel

This vignette occurs while Newkirk and LeBeau are bribing Schultz to buy food for the surprise party they intend to give Colonel Hogan in the episode "Hogan, Go Home."

I don't own the television series "Hogan's Heroes"; therefore, I don't own the episode. This said….

Carter stretched out his arm to the ammonia, then pulled it back. Doubling over, he hugged his chest with his trembling hands.

_It's happening again. I thought I got over being scared of this long ago; but it's happening again._

Backing slowly away from the volatile chemicals, Carter prayed hard that he would not stumble, knock against something and blow up the tunnel. Gritting his teeth, he inched toward the door, his mind focused on one goal - getting out of the laboratory.

At last, his hand touched the cold metal knob. He gripped and turned it, pushed open the reinforced door.

Clutching the doorframe, Carter scanned the radio room. First the radio table. Then the surrounding area.

_Where's Kinch? He's supposed to be on 'stand by'. _

He drew in a deep, slow breath and then slowly exhaled. He drew in another breath: deeper, slower.

_Calm down, Little Deer. One breath at a time. One step at a time._

He felt dizzy. Panicky. The memory of the explosion in his high school's chemistry laboratory, of his cousin's crushed, mangled arm, pounded in his brain, made him feel queasy.

_You're outside the lab now. It's all right. You didn't blow up the tunnel. You didn't blow up the guys like you did Paul._

He uncurled his fingers and lurched over the threshold. Taking another deep, slow breath, he took another forward step, into the radio room.

_Thank God Kinch isn't here. I couldn't face him._

The silence and the gloomy shadows seemed to accuse him of leaving his job undone. The Berlin Express would not wait for him. Neither would the guys. They had to set the charges tonight to blow up the train when it passed by tomorrow. He couldn't think of Paul – of his cousin, Angry Rabbit with Thorn in Cottontail – of the accident that crippled him. Everyone was counting on him to make the demolition packs today. Colonel Hogan wanted it done, and he wasn't going to disappoint the Colonel.

_No, sir!_ Even though the Colonel _had_ disappointed him.

_I haven't shaken like this since I made my first bomb. But when Colonel Hogan leaves us, what am I going to do? The Colonel's believed in me when no one else has, but what if his replacement doesn't?_

Groping along the wall from board to board, beam to beam, Carter made his unsteady way to the cot near the radio. He was trespassing on Kinch's domain, but he hoped Kinch would understand. For everyone's safety, he had to put distance between himself and his explosives. Just for a moment. Just to think things through.

_Just until I can pull myself together._

Eventually he reached his destination. Gingerly lying down on the cot, he exhaled a heavy sigh, fumbled for the rough woollen blanket, then wrapped it tight around his body and squeezed his eyes shut. He sniffed Kinch's scent in the blanket and pillow. He took a deep, slow breath, then another, willing his fellow sergeant's calm, quiet strength and wisdom to fill his lungs, flow through his heart and blood and diffuse through his sinews and his brain as White Wolf had taught him.

_"Take the essence of a warrior into your being and you will feel his brave heart beat within you." _Carter prayed that the native ways his grandfather had taught him would work now. Kinch was equal to any situation.

How could the Colonel think of deserting them, even to go home? He would not have deserted the Colonel, even for a million hero's welcomes.

_It wasn't really desertion_, Carter argued with himself. _London **ordered** Colonel Hogan home. It wasn't like he was leaving on his own._

He repeated to himself what Kinch had said to them all: _"The Colonel takes the greatest risks. He has the heaviest responsibilities. It's about time he got some recognition from the brass."_

_The Colonel deserves all the fuss he'll get. Why shouldn't he be glad he's going home? Why shouldn't he enjoy all we've missed?_

_But, when I wanted to go home and win back my fiancée, Colonel Hogan himself reminded me what we had pledged ourselves to do: assist downed airmen to escape, assist the local resistance in their efforts, and cause as much trouble for the enemy as we could. He has always said our operation was more important than our lives. __How could he turn his back on it? How could he turn his back on us? _

_Because London ordered him home_, he repeated again_. Why should he prefer to stay? He'd want to relax, have fun, after all his headaches running things here.__ After enduring Klink strutting about like a goose and Burkhalter's pompousness and Hochstetter's rants. After always having to think up clever schemes or get us out of the messes I always make. __After constantly worrying about us getting caught and killed._

Colonel Hogan deserved to go home to the comfort of clean sheets, hot baths and cold drinks. No one deserved it more.

Carter closed his eyes and dreamily smiled, imagining that hero's welcome. _Maybe he'll get a ticker tape parade down Broadway__, just like Lindbergh got.__ All those gorgeous movie stars will be fawning over him on that bond selling tour. What wouldn't I give to have Betty Grable kiss me and say how wonderful I am? Who wouldn't prefer that to Newkirk's snoring and Schultz complaining how much his feet hurt?_

The trembling suddenly recommenced. _I must calm down. I must not get envious. I must not get angry at the colonel for leaving us here. He deserves it. It's not his fault he's the only one going._

Carter willed his breathing to deepen and slow, concentrating his thoughts on Kinch as his body warmed the radioman's scent out of the blanket.

_Maybe Kinch will "sort me out", like Newkirk always says. I'd welcome either one of them scorching me for acting like a dope. Or LeBeau giving me heck in French. Then I'd know that everything would somehow be all right despite Colonel Hogan leaving us._

_And they're still with me. We'll still be together after the colonel's gone. _He felt the trembling subside a little, as the blanket warmed his body and his body warmed the blanket.

Carter yawned and nuzzled the thin, dirty yellow pillow against his cheek.

He wished he could be as calm and wise as Kinch. He wished he could be like Newkirk too. Newkirk griped a lot; but he did not let things get him down. He just went on to the next scam, the next theft, the next poker game, or the next girl.

_"Things are just the way things are," Newkirk always says. "If you can't work things your way, you chalk it up to fate and go on. One time out of seven, something will pay off for you. The trick is to grab your opportunity when you see it."_

_But Newkirk also said if he had the opportunity to go home, he'd be off like a shot. What if he left next?  
_

He needed Newkirk. Newkirk was his greatest pal, always standing up for him, even when he thought he was stupid. And he needed Colonel Hogan more than he needed Newkirk. Without him, he could not believe he could do anything right.

Carter felt his stomach scrunch up tight. It hurt a hundred times worse than any insult Kinch or Newkirk had ever given him, realizing that the colonel did not care about him.

His mind argued fiercely with his sore heart. _The Colonel is the Colonel. Why should he care? Officers are trained not to care. If they did, they couldn't order their men to fight to the death. _

_And you had to fight to the death to defend freedom. Even Doktor Falke believes it's heroic to give your life for others, even though she's a pacifist. She knows that we can't let the Nazis win after the way they've bullied other people. Like Colonel Hogan keeps telling her, "We can't stop Hitler with flowers or custard pies."_

Carter chuckled at the thought of Colonel Hogan overpowering Klink with blossoms and banana cream; then he grew serious. _Soldiers and civilians get killed. The colonel can't afford to care about us, in case we get killed, just like we can't refuse to blow up things just because __Doktor Falke argues against us taking other people's lives_

Carter sighed. _I guess I shouldn't have got too close to the colonel; but he's a great guy, for a commanding officer. I'm glad for him. _He tried to convince himself of his happiness; but he felt too miserable.

There was something else. Who would take Colonel Hogan's place, and what would he be like?

_Right now, the Colonel's telling Group Captain Donovan that he's leaving. He might ask him to take command, at least until London sends the replacement they've picked out. He is the next ranking officer in camp, so it's only logical._

_If the group captain took over, he would keep me on because he taught me how to make homemade bombs and he knows I can do my job. _

_But he told Colonel Hogan right at the start that he preferred to carry out the mundane senior officer chores for him. He said that he did not have the subterfuge or the audacity required to command a guerrilla operation._

_Colonel Hogan had doubted that – the group captain had been an Irish terrorist after all – but he always respected his wishes. He'll cajole, but he won't force him to take charge._

_Still, Group Captain Donovan will do it. He won't let Colonel Hogan down. They're friends, and friends don't let down friends._

Carter screwed up his face, as the thought occurred to him: the colonel had not chosen one of the other officers in camp, to groom as his second in command of their operation. Doktor Falke said that was because with a staff made up of corporals and sergeants, he could have everything his own way without anyone arguing back. Carter shrugged. _Well, not without calling him 'sir' and saying 'with respect'.  
_

_One good thing about him going home: he'll straighten things out so that she can go back to Canada without getting shot. He always delivers on his promises, even though he says Doktor Falke is a pain in his backside._

Carter yawned and wrapped the blanket closer. _I bet they'll miss their quarrels._

_Still, it is true that he's never chosen an officer to staff the operation. Just us four. When he goes, who takes over?_

Carter blanched and trembled harder. Among the members of Colonel Hogan's staff, he was the highest in rank.

_No. Kinch would take charge of us. That's always been understood.__ The colonel chose him to be in charge of operations. I outrank him,__ but I'd mess up big. I can't lead men, and I can't plan missions. Kinch has always straightened us out and directed things when the Colonel's not available._

_Group Captain Donovan would front for him to the brass in a heartbeat. He thinks Kinch is a fine leader. London needn't know a sergeant and not an officer was really in command._

_But our operation's become vital to the war effort. That means London will send an officer as soon as they can to replace the Colonel. Kinch won't be allowed to be in charge._

Carter shivered. He pulled the blanket tight and stared across the radio table to the dark entrance of the emergency tunnel. _Colonel Hogan's always kept me on, despite my snafus. What if his replacement won't keep me on? London will give the new officer full control. Group-Captain Donovan can't order him to keep me. Not without the new officer complaining to London. Then London might check up on the group-captain and find out things it shouldn't about him._

_And not too many officers are like Colonel Hogan and listen to enlisted men's opinions. The new officer might disregard all the good the guys would say about me. Besides that, I can't count that Kinch will say good things. He thinks I'm a mediocre soldier._

Carter heard the sounds of someone approaching through the tunnel from Barracks Two.

He swallowed hard. In the crowded confines of a POW camp, each man zealously guarded his few possessions and few feet of personal space. That also was true for the tunnel beneath Stalag Thirteen. Kinch would not enter Carter's lab uninvited. He would demand the same consideration from Carter about the cot.

_And Kinch didn't get any sleep last night, receiving that message and sending the Colonel's reply. And London telling him to 'stand by' after that. And what a message! Sacre chat! And the way the Colonel took it! Kinch won't feel amee.. ayme… What does LeBeau call being friendly? Amiable. No, he won't feel amiable to me at all._

"Don't ever push me past my limit. I don't want you to know how angry I can become," Kinch had once warned him. Carter shivered. He knew that the staff sergeant would deflect his ire from his powerful fists to his wasp's tongue whenever it overwhelmed his strict self-control. Kinch had never struck him, but his barbed words would hurt worse than his blows ever could.

Carter watched his comrade wearily trudge to his place, switch on the overhead light, drop on his stool and go thorough the motions of starting up the radio.

_He must've seen me. Why doesn't he demand an explanation?_

Carter's anxiety skyrocketed. _If Kinch didn't notice me, that means he's brooding about the Colonel. He was all right until that message came._

If Kinch was brooding about the colonel, after all he had said to calm them down, then Kinch was hiding his own worry from them. If he was worried, that was cause for great concern. Kinch only got worried about important things.

Kinch had slipped his earphones on, a clear "do not disturb" signal. His eyes were fixed on the opposite wall, but Carter knew from his far away expression that he was not seeing it. Carter hesitated; but, if he did not make his presence known, his colleague would think he was spying on him. That would make things so much worse.

He gave a small cough.

Kinch did not turn his head. He didn't seem to hear him. _He's just sitting there, staring at the radio._ Carter could see his strained face in profile in the circle of light over the radio table. _Man, the way he looks! His eyes are so sad._

_I guess he would be, _Carter realized, gnawing at his lip. _The colonel and he have always been in sync before. They can 'talk' just with a glance. I've seen Colonel Hogan touch Kinch's arm, or lean on his shoulder, as if to recharge himself whenever he needs reassurance. He depends on Kinch a lot. Maybe more than he'd admit. They're like Angry Rabbit and me. There's no one back home that I'm closer to than my cousin Paul._

_Just "Acknowledge the message. Get all the details." As if Kinch was nothing to him. Just a servant._

_Doesn't the Colonel realise that Kinch has paid hard for supporting him so willingly? Doesn't the Colonel know Kinch has to put up with a lot of garbage from a lot of stupid guys, black and white, to be what they call his 'errand boy'? __Just so he could keep on fighting for his freedom? __The colonel's never been black, or an Indian, so he can't understand how it hurts when white people think you're less than they are.  
_

_What value was giving up his liberty and working hard and long and risking his life for him? _

_Not even a thank-you. No wonder Kinch looks like Colonel Hogan betrayed him._

Carter watched the staff sergeant pull his string of remembrance from his pocket. He watched him slide the worn fibres between his fingers. He saw him hold the string up close, saw him squint slightly to focus on a knot.

_What was Kinch thinking about? Of all the dangers they had undergone? Of all the secrets they had shared? _Carter saw him suddenly clench his fist over the string and lean his head in his other hand, covering his face.

Very slowly, very quietly, Carter slipped his hand into his pants pocket, and felt his own string. He had so many knots on his string: of all the times he had been brave or had finally done something right, of all the times the Colonel's brilliant, audacious plans had saved the day. Feeling them and remembering had given him comfort and courage. He needed comfort and courage now.

Carter sighed at the memories of all that the Colonel meant to him, sad that those same memories meant nothing to the Colonel. That _he_ meant nothing to the Colonel. That _Kinch_ meant nothing to the Colonel.

He felt so useless. What help and comfort could he give? Carter the fool. Carter the klutz. Perhaps the best thing, the only thing, he could do for Kinch was to pretend not to see his pain. Kinch kept his strongest feelings locked fast inside himself. He would not want anyone to know what they were.

_"Brother of my heart," _Carter whispered in the Lakota Sioux language. _"Turn your head. Look at me. I want to be your help, and I need you to be mine."_

Carter glanced at him, concerned, and hopeful. Perhaps his sigh had disturbed Kinch's reverie. Kinch resented intrusion but he would demand an explanation before he dressed him down. _Kinch will listen, even though he's hurting. Even if he's sore at me, he won't leave me stranded. He'll help me sort out how I feel, and tell me what I should do about it._

_He has to argue the plans through, to make sure they'll work. He has to make sure there's no slip ups. He's had to pacify the Colonel and protect him, and he's had to mediate between the Colonel and us. He has to see that the right man for every job was where he should be, doing what he should do. He's had to bolster my courage and correct my snafus dozens of times, and he's had to keep Newkirk and LeBeau from letting their tempers get out of hand._

Carter watched his companion subdue his pain and mend his composure. _Colonel Hogan should say 'Thanks' to all of us for all we've done. He should say at least 'thanks' to Kinch._

* * *

Sergeant Kinchloe adjusted his headphones and tuned his radio dial, struggling to catch Goldilocks' frequency. The radio had been in heavy use throughout the two years of the operation's existence. The calibrations on the dial were no longer in synchronization with the actual wavelengths, and he had not slept since the night before last. And that sleep had been less than three hours long. Rubbing his eyelids with his forefinger and thumb, he forced himself to concentrate on 'standing by'.

He stared across the 'room' at the lamp burning at the entrance to the emergency tunnel. The soft glow seemed to mesmerize him, to soothe his lacerated spirit. The colonel's reaction to the message ordering him home had snuffed out the light within him. His heart felt very dark, very empty, very sore. He needed light desperately.

He forced himself not to be envious of his commanding officer. That was a harder job than waiting the hours for Goldilocks' transmission. Colonel Hogan had been almost nauseatingly gleeful at morning roll call: carolling like the proverbial lark in springtime, slapping men's backs as they formed up, commenting on the blueness of the sky, urging them to agree with him that it was a glorious day.

He could barely keep from grinning wickedly at Kommandant Klink when Schultz gave his report that all Stalag XIII's inmates were present and accounted for. The suspicious glower on Klink's face had been priceless, Kinch admitted with a reluctant little smile, but it was not wise to annoy the Bald Eagle unnecessarily.

Nor was it wise to annoy the other POWs. Corporal Simms and Sergeant Olsen had been awakened far too early for their liking when he and the guys had hovered in front of their bunks next to the colonel's door, debating when and how they should 'break' London's message to the Colonel. They had overheard the entire conversation.

Colonel Hogan's whoop of joy had been too much for Olsen to bear.

"I know your porridge was 'just right' this time, Kinch, but can't you do something to simmer Papa Bear down? The rest of us have to stay in this pesthole," he had demanded.

Simms had shut Olsen up with a scowl. Neither man had said a word to the other POWs, but the seething glares they directed at Colonel Hogan's back clearly expressed their resentful thoughts. If the Colonel was not flying too high to notice, he would have burnt them like toast.

Kinch rubbed his tired eyes and heaved a weary sigh. He had to speak to those two as soon as possible. Olsen looked ready to escape camp out of spite, and Marcus nursed too many grudges in his bosom.

_I wish the Colonel would restrain his elation._

He pulled out his string and fingered the knots. He meant what he had said to the guys. Colonel Hogan had the heaviest responsibilities. He took the greatest risks. He more than deserved to go home to a hero's welcome. _But so do we, and we're not invited to the party._

Groaning, Kinch shut his eyes and leaned his head in his hand.

He admitted that, if someone had offered him a ride home, with or without the glory, he'd have gone like a shot. Of course the colonel would go. He had no illusions that Hogan would prefer his men and their rat hole to fellow officers and clean sheets and decent rations.

That did not bother him. Hogan always had an egocentric streak. Not like the 'every man for himself' attitude that Newkirk had had when they started this operation, but Hogan saw people either as his servants or his patsies and acted accordingly. It came out of his privileged upbringing – of having generals and senators and judges weighing down his family tree.

_He does not mean to be callous. He just thinks 'Whatever benefits Robert E. Hogan benefits everyone.'_

_I suppose I could learn to accept that. I've been burned before. It's the other guys. To leave them without a word of regret. I don't think LeBeau could sleep nights if he couldn't do a daily good deed for the colonel. This party we're giving is his idea, and he'll fuss to make sure it's perfect. Carter's the same. He beams every time Colonel Hogan commends his bombs or calls him 'Andrew'. Newkirk walks a little straighter whenever the colonel wants his magic fingers on a pocket or a safe._

_This will hurt Group Captain Donovan too. He mentored the colonel through those first hard months of adjustment here._

_"How am I going to hold them together, Colonel, when you're gone?"_

_He'd stare blankly at me if I told him what's good for him might be bad for us. I __doubt he'd care if I told him why. He'd say, "Don't worry so much, Kinch. Everything will work out fine."_

_Maybe he'll spare a thought for us once or twice while he's enjoying that hero's welcome.  
_

His mind dwelt upon each of his comrades. Newkirk had put his life on the line for the colonel and his 'barmy plans' many times. Feisty little LeBeau: always there to feed, comfort and rally them on. _I could use Louis' skilled fingers on my tense shoulders right now._ Carter: always ready and willing, if not always able. Olsen: whose wisecracks made them see the funny side of their situation here. _Great guys, every one of them. _

And Marcus Simms too, who understood better than the others ever could all that his commitment had cost him. Few black men would accept that he was not licking their white C.O.'s boots. Fewer would have stood by him as Simms had done, even though it meant carrying a share of the abuse. He was grateful beyond words for his friendship.

He would do anything to protect those men and the man who commanded them; but right now, he longed to punch Colonel Hogan's jaw. Not for leaving. For not sparing them a thought.

_For not sparing me a thought._

He tried not to feel bitter. He repeated to himself what he had said to the guys: The Colonel deserves the hero's welcome. But the bitterness welled up. _What a sucker I've been, expecting a little gratitude._

A movement and a sniffle arrested his thoughts. He swiveled around on his stool.

* * *

Carter felt the strong, heavy hand drop upon his shoulder.

"Why are you on my cot?" The words were soft but curt.

He looked up, frightened. James Kinchloe's mouth was grim and his eyes were cold. "I'm sorry, Kinch. I didn't mean to spy on you. Honest. I didn't."

"Well, you did spy on me. Why didn't you say you were here?" His glare grew colder and harder. "And just why _are_ you here instead of finishing up those demolition packs?"

Carter's earnest eyes begged for his understanding and forgiveness. "I was, but I started shaking. I thought that maybe, if I lay down on the cot for a few minutes, just to sort things out, that I'd calm down. I kept quiet because I could see you were thinking hard, and, well, if I moved, you'd see me and get sore. I was going to wait until you left, and then go back to the lab. Honest, Kinch. I didn't want to intrude on you. I'm sorry I did."

Throwing off the blanket, he started to scramble off the cot.

Kinch forced himself to be tolerant. He sensed his young friend felt hurt and betrayed, full of grief and uncertainty. All the things he felt.

"It's ok. Relax, Little Deer. You did the right thing." He gently pushed the young man back on the cot and wearily settled back on his stool. "I'll catch my own sleep after London's sent 'all the details' the Colonel wants about his going home."

Carter caught the sting in his voice and flushed. He would not accept criticism of Colonel Hogan, even implied, even from Kinch.

But he bit back the retort as he looked at his companion's hurt, weary face. This man was not their calm, quiet, even-tempered, capable Kinch, their font of good sense, their colonel's closest advisor. This was a hurting man, trying to subdue his pain so he could brace up his comrades and carry on the work.

He reminded himself that Kinch did have a right to feel bitter toward Colonel Hogan. Then he heard the radioman sigh.

"I shouldn't have taken out my grouch on you. You did exactly what you should have done: you got out of the lab before you caused an accident, and you found a safe place to pull yourself together." He looked at Carter, and his mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Think we can forgive each other, Andrew?"

Carter looked at him, his sad eyes reproachful. "I won't tell anyone you're sore at the Colonel; but I wish you weren't."

"I wish I wasn't either. I'm sorry that I am."

Carter slowly nodded. "I shouldn't blame you for feeling what I feel. I just wish I didn't feel it too. It really hurts." He looked at Kinch in alarm. "Are we guilty of treason or something?"

Kinch patted his shoulder to reassure him. "I don't think so. Neither you nor I intend to hurt the Colonel, and we're both very sorry we're sore at him."

"You won't tell anyone either, about how I feel, will you?"

"Of course not." Kinch cocked his head slightly. "Now, what are we going to do about your shakes? We've a job to do tonight and we need your bombs." He searched Carter's face; then said gently, "Your cousin Angry Rabbit forgave you his lost arm. He told you he's happy and fulfilled, teaching the kids on the reserve. Believe him. Andrew, there's no better way to live your life than by doing what you're meant to do."

Carter looked back, miserable. "Every time I think about the Colonel leaving us, my hands start shaking. _Sacre chat_, Kinch! Can't you make him stay?"

Kinch summoned every ounce of his will to subdue the pain stabbing his gut.

"Why should he stay? I'm glad he's getting some recognition at last."

"But we need him here!" Carter burst out. "And, as for hero's welcomes, aren't **_we_** entitled to them too?"

"The Colonel was a great pilot," Kinch reminded him. "All those planes he shot down. All those factories and bases he destroyed. The brass is honouring him for that. Not for this." Kinch flicked a hand to the radio and the lab. "No one is supposed to know what we're doing here, remember?"

"But London knows about us. The brass knows about us. What are we, that he gets to go home and we don't?"

Kinch kept his voice calm and patient. "He's Colonel Hogan. He's an officer. We're the tools he uses to get his results."

"It isn't fair," the young man replied. "I'm not a tool. I'm a man."

"Don't sulk, Carter. It's the way things are. The boss always gets the credit, because he **_is_** the boss."

He leaned forward, holding Carter's gaze in his. "One thing I can bank on, though. Once he comes down from the clouds, he'll remember that **_we_** gave him that hero's welcome – us here, and the crews of his squadrons – by doing our utmost for him. I'd rather be remembered by **_him_** for **_that_ **than be showered with medals from generals who never gave a damn about us."

Carter looked contrite. "I know. I remember what you said upstairs. He's always has to think up the plans. Not that you don't think up good plans too, but…"

Kinch gave him a reluctant smile. "But Colonel Hogan's are brilliant."

"Yeah." Carter nodded, relieved that Kinch was not offended. Kinch was a quick thinker, but he wasn't in Colonel Hogan's class as a strategist. Kinch was better at finding and closing the loopholes in the Colonel's plans than he was at making up his own.

Carter sniffled. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "If he cared about us, he wouldn't want to leave us stranded."

Kinch looked at him with quiet amusement. "Didn't Newkirk say it for all of us? He would have gone 'like a shot'. So would you. So would I. So would LeBeau, except his destination would be to the Resistance in Paris."

Carter looked away.

"Come on, Carter!" Kinch coaxed. "Be glad for the Colonel."

"I _am_ glad. I just wish he'd at least say 'I'll miss you' before he goes."

Kinch emitted a weak laugh. "He'll say it. He may be over the Atlantic when he does, and we'll never hear him, but I know he'll say it. _He_ just doesn't know it yet."

Rising to his feet, he shook out the blanket and draped it over his friend.

"Get some sleep," he growled softly. "You want to be fit for the party we're giving him, and I want to work beside a well rested demolitions specialist. No sense celebrating by blowing up the tunnel. That sort of send off the colonel won't appreciate."

Carter pulled the blanket up to his chin. "I don't think I can sleep."

"Make the effort. Please?"

Carter swallowed hard as he watched his comrade in arms reseat himself on the stool. Kinch looked utterly spent. His eyes seemed to close of their own volition. "Okay. I'll try. It's just that I don't know what I'll do without him." He paused, and then said hesitantly, "I guess this is hard for you too, knowing that he'd leave us."

The black sergeant blinked his eyelids apart. "I can take him leaving us," he said in a low voice. "I can't take remaining here after he's gone."

Carter looked at him in silence. Then, he said, "You knew the Colonel would accept, didn't you?"

Kinch reluctantly nodded.

"Then why didn't you warn me? When I said that the colonel's hero's welcome would turn into a dishonourable discharge? You said nothing."

Kinch slowly examined his hands, struggling to think of the right words to say. He always tried to be encouraging and optimistic, yet honest, with Carter. Carter took things so literally, so unquestioningly. It was hard to take, being looked up to as a source of wisdom.

He did not feel wise. He felt hurt, angry, bitter, disappointed, envious, but not wise. A million emotions clawed at his soul that he must not show in front of his comrades. Especially not in front of Carter. Carter and LeBeau adored Colonel Hogan as slightly less than God Almighty. Newkirk admired the Colonel, but Newkirk was a cynic. Sure, Newkirk had agreed that no one deserved the break more than the Colonel did; but naturally he would ask himself what Carter had just asked aloud: _Aren't we entitled to go home too?_

Kinch grimaced. Whoever split the atom would cause less havoc in the world than Colonel Hogan's departure would cause among the men left behind in Stalag Thirteen.

All the men longed for home and freedom, but they had submitted to Colonel Hogan's 'no escapes' order. _When the men hear he's going home to a hero's welcome, they'll riot, or tear apart the tunnel trying to escape through it. It won't matter to them that London _ordered_ the Colonel home. Whatever they'll do, we'll lose the operation and, more than possibly, our lives. How could London – how could the Colonel – be so blind?_

Kinch closed his eyes and softly groaned, imagining the carnage. He would need all the tact in the world to mollify them after the Colonel left, and he didn't have a grain of it.

"Kinch?" Carter's hesitant voice seemed to come from the far side of the moon. Kinch forced open his eyes and studied his friend's anxious, woeful face. _Poor guy. It's like his whole world's caved in on him._

He stared down at his own empty hands without seeming to see them. "I hoped I had read him wrong, Andrew," he said slowly. "You guys were so sure he'd refuse, but he had never refused London's orders before." He managed a feeble laugh. "How could he refuse _that_ one?"

Carter slowly nodded. "I wish you _had_ read him wrong."

Kinch dredged up a smile. "The Colonel won't leave without saying goodbye to you. He'll make a point of it."

_And I'll make a point of seeing that he does, _he resolved grimly, watching Carter's face light up.

"To me? Really? Why do you think that?"

"Because he chose you. He saw something in you the rest of us did not. Even I've got to admit you did not disappoint him. He thinks you're quite a man. So do I, Little Deer."

"Thanks. I – I guess I must do some things ok." Carter smiled back with a shy pride. Then his face clouded. He gazed longingly at his laboratory.

"But what if the new C.O. doesn't think so? What if he doesn't want me on the team? The Colonel's kept me on. I don't know why."

Kinch laughed softly. "I've often pondered that."

Carter started up from the cot, "You just said I was a good man."

Kinch caught him by the shoulders and gently but firmly pushed him back upon the pillow. "Of course you are, when you think before you act." He lifted his eyes in mock resignation to the ways of both Fate and Carter.

Then he made a placating motion. "Don't worry. The colonel will tell his successor how good you are. Coming from a hero like Colonel Hogan, that should be recommendation enough to keep you on."

"Do you think I'm worth keeping?"

"Carter! After what I just said?"

"Well do you?" Carter persisted. "I know you'll tell me straight. You know that I'm stupid. You've said it many times. I've got to know now how I can do better, before the new C.O. comes. Please, Kinch. Tell me what I should know. I don't want to lose my lab."

"Relax. I guarantee you won't lose it," Kinch replied, squeezing Carter's shoulder. "Get a grip on your memory string and count how many times you've blown up something. How many times you've played generals and Gestapo and even old Fruitcake. You not only got away with it but did it brilliantly and made the mission a success."

Kinch's eyes moved and stared sightlessly into the back hole of the emergency tunnel. He muttered, almost in a whisper, "It's more likely _you'll_ stay and _I'll_ go."

Carter grasped Kinch's arm and gaped at him, alarmed. "He'll want you. I know he'll want you. I don't see how anyone wouldn't want you."

Kinch shook his head, his sore heart touched by Carter's forthright words. "Let's face it. What's he going to see when he sees me? I don't blend into the Kraut crowd like you guys do."

"If he doesn't want you, then I'll be glad he won't want me 'cause I won't work for him," Carter said vehemently. "It wouldn't be safe if you're not with us, and I promised my mom I'd come home in one piece the moment the war's over."

Kinch emitted his command growl. "You're in uniform, bub. If an officer wants you, you're his."

"It wouldn't be safe," the young man protested even more vehemently. "Anyone who doesn't make you his right hand man is stupid, and I'm not making bombs for someone stupid. I don't care if it costs us the war. I won't do it."

Looking at Carter's flushed face, Kinch felt a rekindled glow warming his own heart. His stern features relaxed into a smile. "Well, we'll argue about that if and when we have to."

Carter gripped his sleeve harder. "You're good at arguing, and the Colonel listens to you. Couldn't you argue him into staying with us? I remember all you said to me when I asked his permission to go home to win back my fiancée. Isn't this the same?"

Kinch looked embarrassed. "I wasn't in a good mood that day. I wish you'd forget what I said."

"I can't. Maybe you exaggerated; but I know you meant it. Honest, Kinch. I'm trying as hard as I can to make good."

"Shh! I know that. You improve with every mission." Kinch spoke the words lightly, but sincerely. He gently detached Carter's hand and tucked it under the blanket. "You know that I can't insult Colonel Hogan."

"The Colonel will understand why," Carter said shyly. "I understood why."

Kinch intently studied Carter's earnest face. _"Do you, Andrew? Do you know the real reason I took out my irritation on you?"_

He had received bad news of his own from home at the time Carter received the 'Dear John' letter from his fiancée. The medical report that had labelled him '4-F' had resurfaced. He had made a joke of it – _just another bureaucratic bungle _– to deflect awkward questions; but Colonel Hogan had suspected that he was covering up. He had evaded the Colonel's probing, and, aside from informing Fraulein Doktor Falke of his suspicions, the Colonel apparently forgot about it.

Doktor Falke had been anxious about him ever since, but she had agreed to keep what she heard through her stethoscope their secret. Disclosures would be for him to make, at the time he saw fit to make them. He knew she suspected that he did not intend to make them; but that was his business, not hers. Colonel Hogan would send him home and recommend he be discharged if he found proof that he was unfit for combat duty. All he had done, all he had borne, would be worthless if he could not see the fight through.

Satisfied that Carter did not suspect, Kinch shook his head. "The Colonel wants to go home, and I'm not going to stop him. There'll be a smile on my puss, even if Newkirk has to carve it on. And you're going to wear that same smile when he leaves, along with everyone else in this camp."

Carter nodded, aware that Kinch would make the man who disobeyed him feel it. "Don't worry. I'll smile till he's gone. I won't let on to him how miserable I really feel. But what about his replacement? Couldn't we get London to appoint Group Captain Donovan? He's here. He's blown things up, and he knows that I can do my job."

"I'm afraid not," Kinch replied. "London doesn't know about the group captain's excellent qualifications, and I'll wring the neck of anyone who even hints at them. No one is going to kill him for his past as long as I'm alive."

Carter shivered at the fire in his companion's dark eyes. "I won't tell," he said hastily. "I swore it to the Colonel. I'll swear it to you. I don't want the group captain hurt."

Kinch laid his hand on Carter's shoulder. "I know you don't, but I know you'll be tempted to let out his secret. You'll think London will allow him to redeem himself by leading us. Believe me. That won't happen."

He shook his head wearily. "Newkirk could tell you better than I can how the English feel about the Irish terrorists. It's the same as Doktor Falke getting upset at us for creating casualties out of the Krauts, only worse, since Marli's all bark and no bite. Donovan may not have told us his whole story. London may have more on him than we know."

"Cross my heart, I won't tell on him," insisted Carter. "But what's going to happen to us if the Colonel goes?"

"**_When_**the Colonel goes. We'll survive, together, like we've always done. Just not in the same way."

Kinch looked at Carter. "Let's take it one change at a time, shall we? Let's help LeBeau throw Colonel Hogan the best farewell dinner that money can buy."

Carter smiled tremulously. "Yeah. That's just what we'll do."

The radio started buzzing. Adjusting his headphones over his ears, Kinch picked up his pencil and rapidly took down the message.

Carter hastily rose and leaned over Kinch's broad shoulder, peering down at the squiggles of the radioman's shorthand. He had seen all sorts of handwriting since he was a student of pharmacy, but Kinch's shorthand was unique: a mixture of the Gregg style, courtesy of the U.S. Army Signal Corps, the Pitman style he learned working with RAF radio operators, some medical shorthand and Latin he picked up from his sister Jessica and from Doktor Falke that he used for his own purposes, and some symbols all his own. Carter felt comforted by the very illegibility of the marks. No one, Allied or Axis, would ever decipher Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe's shorthand. And his good friend Kinch was staying, like Newkirk and LeBeau were staying, with him. He need not be frightened of causing another catastrophe.

Kinch put down his pencil, acknowledged receipt of the message to Goldilocks, and signed off.

Carter waited for him to transcribe the message into a legible form. But when Kinch merely stared down at his paper with a perturbed expression, he began to fidget. "Aren't you going to tell me?"

"You know the Colonel must see it first."

"Yeah, but it's about the Colonel's replacement, isn't it? I could tell that from your face and some of the shorthand." Carter squirmed self-consciously beneath the older man's widening eyes. "I learned shorthand at business college. I wanted to own my own drug store someday, so I thought I should learn how stores were run."

"Business school and a pharmacy degree. I can't get your limits." The awe in his companion's voice made Carter blush.

"Shucks, Kinch. I don't know. It just seemed the logical thing to do."

"It _was_ the logical thing to do." Kinch shook his head, his expression still amazed. "Andrew, you're a bright man. Try to show it more often, ok? Stop selling yourself short."

Carter blushed deeper. "I do my best, you know. It just doesn't always work out."

"Keep trying," Kinch encouraged him. "Maybe I'll be reminded more often that you've got something."

Carter ducked his head. "Sure." He looked up. "About the message. Won't you tell me? We have to work for this new officer. What he's like will affect us, and, well…maybe if I knew what he's like, I'd calm down and do a better job. Didn't London give you any hints?"

Kinch looked down at the paper, rubbing his chin meditatively. "All right, but don't let on to Colonel Hogan I told you first. The guy is an RAF group-captain – 'Colonel' to you and me …"

"Like Group Captain Donovan?"

"Don't interrupt. Yeah. Same rank. London didn't say if he was junior or senior to Colonel Hogan, so I don't know if he outranks Donovan. Well, he won't have any problems with our group captain. We know Donovan would rather take care of the 'upstairs routines' than the downstairs ones."

Kinch glanced at his clipboard again. "The new man's a martial arts expert, and he's gone through commando training." He grimaced. "Looks like we'll learn a lot from this guy. None of us took courses in guerrilla warfare."

"We've got lots of experience." Carter looked shyly at his companion. "Well, you said, 'Don't sell yourself short.'"

Kinch gave a deep laugh. "You're right. We've got the experience and we know the terrain. We'll impress our new boss when he comes."

He looked down at the message again, frowning. "I don't know why I have an uneasy feeling about this officer; but I do. Something tells me he's too good to be true."


	2. Meanwhile, in Barracks Eleven

Hogan shut the door of Barracks Eleven, leaned against its peeling paint and looked around him.

Goons patrolling outside the fence and between the fence and wire. Goons in the goon boxes. Goons' eyes always on him. Would he ever shake the feeling of being watched?

He gazed up at the hawk soaring over the compound, admiring its breadth of wing and its grace in flight. _"I can hardly wait to join you up there, buddy. I can hardly wait to fly again."_

Prisoners picking up garbage. Prisoners slouching about the compound or walking the perimeter of the camp, just inside the 'dead wire'. Prisoners washing their ragged uniforms. Prisoners throwing a ball around. Prisoners everywhere he looked – including in his mirror. _Free. I'll soon be free. Free and out of here. _

Putting his hand in his pocket, he fingered the folded slip of paper - the order from London to go home.

_Home. What a wonderful word!_ He repeated it again and again, immersing himself in the sensations it conjured up. _I'm going Home At Last._

Home to a hero's welcome and a three month bond selling tour. Medals and movie stars. Maybe even a promotion. _What more could a man ask for?_

Well, plenty. A hot bath, for one thing. Lying for a week on a decent mattress between clean sheets. Food that didn't taste like last year's leftovers. LeBeau cooked fantastic meals from the scant rations the Luftwaffe's prison program provided, what they were able to scrounge and Schultz could steal from the camp supplies and what the Red Cross provided. But food tasted better when you're a free man and soon, very soon, he would be just that.

The hero's welcome would probably take a month. The bond selling tour would take three. And then? Up in the sky again. _I'll insist on a fighter command this time. . After all, I'm a hero. _

He watched the hawk wheel and soar overhead, feeling at one with its arrogant majesty as it surveyed its terrain.

His gaze slid away from it as it soared over the flagpole. He must not attract the goons' suspicious eyes to the pole, or they'll wonder why the flag was at half-mast.

_Kinch still 'standing-by'? Goldilocks never gets it that we're in a POW camp. "'POW' means 'Prisoner of War', lady. Didn't anyone ever tell you that the Krauts have some nasty ways to punish prisoners who communicate by secret radios? Manicures that remove the fingers along with the nails? Piano wire neckties?"_

_Well, in a couple of days, it won't mean anything to me. I'll be out of here. I'll be home free - a bona fide hero._

He imagined the scene. Bands playing. People cheering. The President pinning stars on his shoulders and shaking his hand. 

He eased his back against the splintered boards and smiled, his eyelids closing. _General Hogan. I like the way that sounds. _

There was a twinkle in Roosevelt's eyes as he flashed his ear-to-ear grin and reminded him of their conversation in the Oval Office in 1939, when he had been an obscure captain. 'Oh, you'll go on to greater things.'

_Shrewd man, FDR. Knew talent when he saw it. _

Now he was riding down Broadway in the back of an open car, ticker-tape and confetti spilling from his hair and shoulders. His heart swelled as the cheers swelled. He felt the breeze blow between the skyscrapers to caress his face. He reached out his hand reached out and felt ...

Nothing. The shoulder he groped for, the firm shoulder that had been near his hand since his arrival in this hell hole, was not there to grasp.

He winced and opened his eyes. What a moment it would have been for them both, to see Kinch hugging his genius sister tight in his arms, laughing his deep, strong, laugh, exultant in his own freedom. To see him stand on the platform, tall and spruce in an officer's dress uniform. Controlled, competent, cautious, loyal Kinch. _My radioman. My mainstay. My comrade. My… my friend._

Fraulein Doktor Pacifist Pain would not have been able to resent soldiers then. No. Marlena would have been smiling proudly through her tears. She and Carter would have been arm in arm, glowing like the noonday sun with affection for their friend. Lieutenant's bars would have been gleaming on Andrew's tunic too. Newkirk and LeBeau would also have been there somehow. LeBeau would not have missed seeing honour done to Kinch, not even if DeGaulle had entered Paris at the same time. Same with Newkirk to Carter. What a moment it would have been for them all.

He squinted at his own barracks and his eyebrows came together in a frown. He recalled the stunned reactions of his men to his good news: LeBeau's dropped jaw, Carter's bewildered eyes, Kinch's tautened lips, Newkirk's scowl.

He could still feel the skin on his back crack and shrivel from Marcus Simms's eyes burning his back during roll call.

He dug his nails into his hands. Why weren't they happy for him? If London had called them home, wouldn't they have jumped for joy?

Was it his fault that the orders weren't for all of them? They deserved to go home. He'd have taken the whole camp with him if he could.

He'd certainly have taken Doktor Pacifist. _One good thing about going back home is that I can pull the strings that get that stubborn conchie female away from my operation. _

But it wouldn't be his operation.

_Donovan. God, it must belong to Donovan. Mike cares about the men. And he knows it all. He trained Carter. No one knows more about sabotage than Big Michael._

Yet, when the moment came to tell Michael Donovan he was leaving, all he could do was pull the message from his pocket and hold it out to him.

Donovan had pulled his body into a more comfortable reading position, biting back a groan at the pain that shot up from his broken leg. He had taken the paper and held it to his eyes. Had scanned it, frowning. Had re-read it, slowly. Had stared at it for a full minute.

"Kinchin pressed a bit too hard with his pencil," the big Irishman remarked drily. He flexed the small sheet once, then held it out to Hogan.

Hogan glanced down at it. Every stroke in the phrase 'bond selling tour' had become a tiny slit.

"Mike, I'm ordered home." The words sounded like a plea.

"Of course, Robbie. You would not have left us otherwise." Donovan, with an obvious effort, smiled and held out his right hand. "God go with you, Colonel. You deserve to go home a hero."

Hogan blinked as he grasped the proffered hand. "Mike, the luck doesn't always fall where it should."

"It did this time," Michael Donovan said gently, squeezing Hogan's hand. "Take my goodwill, Robbie. Leave the ill behind."

The colonel's lips quirked. "You're saving that for London?"

"I'm still a good Irish republican, boyo."

Hogan tapped the paper in his hand. "And this has made you a better one?"

"Let us say, 'more fervent'. How do they think we'll fare without you?"

Hogan looked at his friend. He hesitated, and then came out with it. "Mike, I know I promised not to involve you in the operation; but you are the Senior British Officer."

Donovan had frowned, staring sightlessly at his upraised foot. "Do you realize what you're asking of me? If I take command, Goldilocks will dig into m'background – and Goldilocks is very through in such matters. Think what they'll do to me."

He was right, Hogan thought. London would smile at a common thief like Newkirk, but not at a political terrorist. Not even one who had fought for King and Empire.

"I know, Mike; but the men need you to command them."

"Kinchin can do as well as m'self. Probably even better." He looked closely at Hogan. "When you leave, the burden will fall heaviest upon him."

"The burden?" Hogan slipped his fingernail beneath one of the slits. He appeared to be lost in reverie.

"Of caring for the operation and of holding together the men."

Hogan raised his eyes. "You'll have to take that burden on your shoulders, Mike. Kinch is a fine man, but he is only a sergeant. You know London won't accept anyone but an officer."

Donovan pondered this sombrely. "It's been so long since I've done such work. I'm no longer a youth. And there is this." He tapped his cast. "What good is a man with a broken leg?"

Hogan smiled his reassurance. "Your leg will mend."

The group captain looked at the colonel. "Aye, my leg will mend."

"_I don't know if my heart will" _his eyes added silently.

Hogan gave Donovan's shoulder a reassuring pat. "Don't fret that anyone will guess at your past if you have to blow up one or two bridges."

The big man conjured up an answering smile. "I hope no one does guess - at any of us."

Hogan leaned back, relieved. "Then it's settled. You'll take full command when I leave."

Donovan nodded. "Verra well. I'll be it until they send your successor."

They arranged the details of transferring authority.

Then Donovan looked up at him. "Do me a favour, Robbie?" He gestured to his bound foot. "Will y' walk the round of the camp for me?"

The colonel smiled knowingly and replied with a shake of his head. "Mike, I'm going home, and sentiment won't stop me. A hero's welcome comes only once in a man's career."

"Did I say anything about stopping you? I'm merely finding it hard to hobble about and want to be here when Fraulein Doktor Falke looks in on me."

Hogan shot him a keen glance. "Sure, I'll make the round for you." He paused. "Let me tell her that I'm leaving, alright?"

"If the men have not before either you or I get the chance." Donovan gestured to Kinch's note, and gave a warning frown. "Remember. Whoever hurts those men, …."

"…hurts her. I know. That's why I forgive her all she hurls at me."

"And why she forgives you all you hurl at her.

The gleam in Donovan's eyes faded out. "I can't see you along the escape route because of this." He nodded to his cast. "But it doesn't mean I won't be there in spirit wishing you Godspeed. You'll always be in my prayers."

Hogan swallowed hard. "And you in mine, Mike."

"That is, if you remember your prayers between meeting the President and kissing the movie stars."

"I'll remember. You'll be in my prayers every night."

"Make it 'every day', Robbie. I know how you'll spend your nights."

Hogan smiled, to hide the searing ache he suddenly felt. He would miss that hearty laugh. "Every day, then."

He patted Donovan's broad shoulder. "Don't fret, you old bogtrotter. Everything will work out."

Donovan stared into his glass. "You've earned your medals and more. But medals are a poor compensation for lost friends."

Hogan's smile melted into sympathy. Big Michael had lost too many friends during two wars and to the violence that had torn apart his native Ireland during the interim peace. Friends had turned into enemies, or into corpses. Michael cherished his memories of them, bore the aches and the scars.

"My friendship's yours wherever I am," Hogan replied. "I'll write to you all that's fit to print. We'll have a lot to catch up on when we meet again."

Donovan gave a deep laugh. Not a merry laugh, but warm. "Verra well, Colonel. I'll no more fuss." He wagged his thick forefinger close to Hogan's nose. "But if I don't hear or see you again in this world, my shade will haunt you from the next."

Hogan swatted it away as he rose. "You haven't seen the last of me. I intend to lure you to America after the war." He touched the brim of his cap to the older man as he turned the door handle. He paused, then said with all the sincerity in his heart, "Thanks, Mike. For everything."

Hogan stole another glance at the Kommandanttur. The flag was again flying at the top of the pole. Goldilocks had transmitted the details of his departure.

Then his brow furrowed. Did he really want to leave his men, even to go home to a hero's welcome?

He thought of all they had done since the idea of a 'traveler's aid station' first came to him. He remembered how it had appealed to Kinch. His great-great grandfather had been a passenger, then a conductor, on another long underground railway, helping fugitives to freedom. _Nothing like keeping up a family tradition_, Kinch had said.

LeBeau and Newkirk had readily fallen in with the plan, adding the experience they had acquired through many escape attempts. Although they had wished to be the first two escapees, _"Just to try out the route, guv'nor. Make sure it's safe."_

There was Olsen: the chameleon of Stalag Thirteen, who spoke German like a native and who blended into the scenery so well you didn't know he was there.

And then came Carter._ Face it, Hogan, you get the same adrenalin rush from blowing up a target that Carter does. You love his eagerness to help and the way he throws his heart into his work._

Donovan had gone through the camp's roster with him, filling him in on which man was suitable to which job. He had found the tunnelers, and with Newkirk's help, the forgers, tailors and diversion artists. What was more important, he had kept them in firm control.

"_After all, I was the new man on the block," _Hogan thought with a wry smile. _"The American colonel with the crazy scheme. Most of the guys here then were British. How could they have trusted me unless their former C.O. had trusted me first?"_

Hogan looked up at the sounds of the gate opening and a small truck entering the camp. Schultz was driving it. There was no mistaking that bulk to be anyone else. Doktor Falke looked half squashed against the passenger door. Since when did old Schultz leave camp to fetch her?

He straightened up as Schultz parked the truck with its tailgate to the door of his barracks. _Why there? Why didn't he let her off at Klink's office or the infirmary?_

He saw Schultz hand her out of the truck, then motion Langenscheidt to climb in the back and get out her bicycle.

_He looks fatter than usual. Surreptitious too. So does she. So does Langenscheidt. So do the guys crowding around Schultz: Newkirk and LeBeau, Olsen, a few others. They're going into the barracks. Even Schultz is going inside._

_There's Kinch, pulling Marlena aside and whispering in her ear. She's gazing at him mouth open, like she can't believe what she's heard. Kinch had to take her bag from her hand or she would have dropped it. _

_I don't see Carter. He must be finishing up his demolition packs. _

_Langy's set the bike against the barracks wall. Now he's gesticulating to Kinch that he's not supposed to talk privately to Marlena.  
_

_Man, she looks stunned. Langy's leading her to Donovan's barracks now. Kinch has gone inside and Schultz has just come outside – at least five pounds lighter. _

Hogan's eyes narrowed. _What's going on?_

Hogan watched Schultz steer Doktor Falke's bike toward the enclosure where the vehicles were locked away from any escape happy P.O.W. He waited until the fat guard had gone far enough that he could not be seen or heard by anyone in the barracks. Then, slipping a smile on his face, he sauntered toward him.

"Hiya, Schultz! Heard any good secrets lately?" 

_He's simpering. _

Hogan slapped him on the back. The simper broke into a grin. 

"Schultzie. You know something and you want to tell. You want to tell me so badly you can't hold it in"

Schultz started giggling. Hogan poked the fat over his ribs. "Come on, Schultzie. Tell me before you burst. What secrets?"

Schultz glanced behind at Barracks Two, and smirked. He leaned toward Hogan, eye twinkling. "Only the one about your surprise party, Colonel Hogan."

For a few seconds the world blurred. "My – surprise party?"

"Ja! Caviar. Fillet mignon. Rich chocolate layer cake. Ummm! Wunderschoen!" Schultz clasped his pudgy hands reverently. The bicycle wobbled.

Hogan caught it by the handlebars. "And who's giving the feast?" he challenged. "Klink buttering me up to so I'll show him mercy when he surrenders?"

"Your men are giving the feast." Schultz gurgled. "And I am not going to inquire how they got the money to bribe me."

"_And to pay a king's ransom. Caviar and fillet mignon!" _Hogan hid his startled feelings beneath a teasing smile. "And you're not going to give the change back, are you Schultz?"

Schultz's simper returned. "Nein, Colonel Hogan. Why should I? I did the shopping and I know how to bargain." 

His voice took on a weedling tone. "You will save me some of the cake? Please, Colonel Hogan! LeBeau said it will be –." Schultz closed his eyes. "Chocolate! Wunderschoenes Bavarian chocolate_!"_

"Of course, Schultz," Hogan said automatically, his mind on the cost his men had paid for his bon voyage banquet.

"I don't know where they knew about the market behind Reinhart's market," Schultz continued. "But of course, I know nothing whatever about anything. Nothing."

Schultz took the bike, chortling at the stunned expression he saw on Hogan's face. "They are such good boys, Colonel Hogan, to care about you so much. Auf wiedersehen!"

"You'd better watch out, Schultz, or the S.S. will be inquiring into your family's origins." Hogan managed to call after him. "If they do, better say you come from the MacSchultz clan of Dundee, Scotland."

For several minutes he stood, stunned. His instructors' maxims hammered within his brain.

"_Your men are your tools." "Sentiment is a deadly weakness in an officer." "You must harden yourself to accept losses." _

He fingered the note in his pocket. _If one of them had got this, would I have let him go? _

_No. If that message had been for Kinch, I would have made him refuse on the spot. If it had been for one of the others, I'd have had that order countermanded, and Kinch's head on a plate if he ever breathed a word of it. If he did breathe it, I would have told the 'hero' his place was here with us, made up some great line about duty and honour and serving your country without expecting a reward. I needed these men here, and I'd have kept them here._

He gazed at the flagpole. The memories, one after the other, came back to him.

Newkirk stealing the parts and Kinch rigging the radio.

That first transmission. How each man had looked when they realized they were indeed in contact with London. Newkirk choked up with tears.

Carter making and detonating his first bomb. It seemed to have cracked a shell of fear around Carter when it went off. He had become braver, more outspoken, less hesitant around the others.

Those trips to Paris with LeBeau. Ummmm. The light in Louie's face while he showed him around 'his' city. So passionate about the place, yet he came back without a mutter to Stalag Thirteen when their work there was done.

The sabotage missions. The camaraderie. He had never felt closer to any other men.

His men. His partners in the most dangerous combat of all – clandestine, behind enemy lines. If caught, no Geneva Convention could save them.

His throat constricted._ No one like them. None like them at all. And I've never thanked them for believing in me, for going through with it._

_If Donovan wasn't laid up with a broken leg, he would've kicked me in the pants. I deserve it. I go home to a hero's welcome and leave behind the guys who earned it for me._


	3. Meanwhile, Back in Barracks Two

_This missing moment follows the point where Schultz summons Colonel Hogan to Kommandant Klink's office._

Olsen dipped his finger in the pot, licked it and scrunched his face at Kinch. "Too bitter this time."

LeBeau instantly bristled. "What do you mean – 'too bitter'?"

Kinch held up a hand for calm. "He meant the 'porridge', Louis."

Carter looked bewildered. "Porridge? That's not porridge." Then his face cleared. "Oh, you mean the message. I guess the colonel hasn't had much sleep, being too excited, and we know how grouchy he is when he's tired, but I still don't know what he's upset about. I mean, the way he strode out after Schultz …"

He looked from man to man, waiting for an explanation. The men avoided his eyes.

His face fell. "Why did he shut me up? I only wanted to say that I'd never think the new colonel could be better than him."

Newkirk moved to him. "It's nothing you said, chum. It's just how long you took saying it."

"Oui, André. Your sentiments were fine, but le Colonél had no wish to hear them."

Carter looked at LeBeau earnestly. "I wanted to say it. I thought he needed to hear it."

LeBeau just stirred the mixture before him. Why had Colonél Hogan done so gauche a thing as spoil their surprise? This banquet was their gift to him – his gift in particular – to show him how they loved him. It was a cruel schoolboy's trick to play on friends, after they had lavished so much time and money upon it. It was so unlike the man he thought he knew. Le Colonél liked to tease, yet that he could be so callous...?

He shook his head and sighed deeply. Were they Colonél Hogan's friends, or merely his pawns, as Mademoiselle le Docteur Falke accused? Mlle. le Docteur was a Boche prude and a pacifist. She could not understand le Colonél like he could – un homme français et tout la monde. Yet, perhaps, in this case, she had been right in her poor opinion of him. Le Colonél had acted insensitively to them all.

_Mon pauvre Kinch – how he gazes deep inside himself, seeking for solace. And Carter appears hollow eyed and about to cry. Newkirk looks from them to me, and back to them, with a face grim and hard. _

_Would I have acted better than le colonél, had I received the news? If de Gaulle had summoned me to his side, would I have said "Non, merci, Monsieur le General. I will stay with my comrades in this wretched prison?"_

_Mais non. I would have gone with alacrity. Although, perhaps I would have given mes amis at least a backward glance and a wave of farewell. I would have told them sooner than le colonél told us. It would not have been past noon before I told them what they had meant to me._

Kinch rubbed his eyes with forefinger and thumb, as if trying to rub away a headache. "The Colonel's not mad at you, Carter. He's mad that the world didn't change course to suit him the moment he changed his mind."

He stared sightlessly at the floor. _Simmer down_, he reminded himself. _ Don't upset them more than they already feel._

He forced the bile out of his voice. "His replacement is a trained commando. He doesn't want to think that we might think the guy was an improvement on him, especially when … ." Kinch bit back the words, again reminding himself that he too would have went home, given the chance.

"But I told him he couldn't be!" Carter persisted.

Newkirk looked up from his clasped hands. "Yeah. You did. It was good of you; but he didn't want your sympathy."

"But it wasn't sympathy. It was true!"

LeBeau left his pot, and rested his hand on Carter's bowed shoulder. "But he didn't want to hear it, especially from you, André. He knew you were sincere. That hurt him all the more."

Kinch looked at both LeBeau and Carter with sad understanding. "He came down from those clouds we spoke about a moment too late, Andrew."

"And had one bumpy landing," Olsen added. He dipped his fingers in the pot, then yelped and withdrew them, wincing, when LeBeau brought his wooden spoon down on his wrist.

"He's realized now what, and who, he gave up for that hero's welcome," Kinch explained to Carter. "He doesn't want to leave us – he's mad at himself, not at you – but he can't undo his decision. His replacement's on his way."

Carter continued to shake his head in perplexity. "But he can tell the new man he's changed his mind, can't he?"

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "And what's the new man going to do, you mug – trot back to Goldilocks and say 'Sorry, chaps. Seems our hero doesn't want his welcome after all?' You don't do that to the brass, mate. Not after they've planned the whole thing and sent a high and mighty replacement here. Not if you don't want that courtmartial and dishonourable discharge you bleated about down in the tunnel last night."

"But he doesn't want to leave us now, and besides, I still think he's better than anyone we'll get."

Kinch managed a weak smile. "He knows that now, Carter. You said it for all of us."

He sighed and rubbed his temples. _"We could have avoided this, Colonel, if only you had just thought things through ."_

Newkirk studied the radioman intently. Kinch was leaning heavily against his bunkpost, his eyes almost closed. Apparently, only his bitterness and his sense of duty were keeping him conscious.

He did not blame him for feeling bitter. Kinch had backed Hogan from the start, and as their operations' manager, he had the most to lose from the change in command. What had he got out of his work but worry and long, lonely hours in the tunnel? Still, it was not in Kinch to surrender either the radio or his responsibilities, and who would want to lose the status of being at the senior officer's right hand?

Newkirk looked around the table. Carter sat slumped on his stool, his clasped hands dangling between his knees, staring at the floor.

_Kinch could always see __the guv'nor __ dispassionately – that innate caution or whatever of his. Same with me. I can't be conned. But Carter lived on his praise. What if Carter's confidence goes west? We lose a good demolitions' man. Carter could get himself killed through nervousness – and us with him._

LeBeau had returned to stirring his mixture, gazing down at it as if trying to read his fate from the bursting bubbles. He sighed. "What are we going to do without le colonél?"

"We go on," Kinch replied, more to the floor than to him. "We do our jobs." He looked up from his introspection with a face that brooked no argument. "And we do our best, without regretting what can't be changed." He looked hard at Carter. "It's not the new C.O.'s fault that he's not Colonel Hogan."

LeBeau looked up at him. "You do not wish to see him go, Kinch, any more than we do."

"My wishes don't count. I'll show him that I hope he enjoys all the perks of his hero's welcome and that I'll do my best for his replacement. And you're going to show him the very same attitude. He's not leaving here with misgivings."

"Yeah," Carter hastily agreed, ready to back Kinch up as promised. "We've gotta smile and wish him well, so that he doesn't worry about leaving us."

LeBeau complied, lowering his sad eyes again to his cooking pot. "Oui. D'accord." Newkirk heard him sniff, thought he saw a tear drop into the mixture.

The Frenchman lifted his wooden spoon, watched the gravy drip back into the pot. "Well, so much for our celebration." He scooped up another load, twisted the spoon, watched it plop.

Newkirk saw Kinch shoot LeBeau a troubled, helpless look. He could see that Kinch wanted to comfort LeBeau, not bark at him. LeBeau adored Colonel Hogan. All the guv'nor had to do was put his arm around the little bleeder's shoulders and he was his for life.

What could they do but watch their loyal friend fall apart? His heartache hurt them so much worse because LeBeau was such a tough, fierce little man – a fiery cockerel, like old Donovan called him. Always ready to attack his foes and defend his friends. But he was close to defeat, just because the Colonel was leaving him.

LeBeau kept his eyes fixed on his food. He was not going to cry before his comrades. Planning the surprise party had kept the hurt at bay, had kept his mind and his hands occupied; but now that the surprise was spoiled and the colonél did not want to leave them…

He looked up. "We should clear away this mess."

He felt the stunned looks, heard the gasps of surprise. Even Corporal Simms, in his shadowy corner beside Hogan's quarters, stared up from the sock he was darning.

Drawing in his breath, he looked up at them. "Oui. Mon colonel does not want his party now, so we should clear away the mess."

He picked up a bowl. No one dared ask him what really happened next. Did the bowl slip from his shaking hands, or did he hurl it down? No matter. It smashed into the clichéd million pieces.

Carter, Kinch rushed forward; but Newkirk got to him first.

"There now, chum!" Newkirk soothed, putting his arm around the Frenchman's shoulder. "There now! We'll get through this." He guided LeBeau to his stool and eased him down. The little man covered his face with his hands and heaved what could have been a sigh or a moan or even a sob.

Carter began to pat his shoulder hesitantly, his anxious eyes moving from LeBeau to Newkirk to Kinch.

Kinch looked at the food-strewn table, then issued his instructions.

"Carter, watch the door for Krauts or the Colonel. Foster. Davis. Garlotti. Put away the food. Olsen, get me a bowl of water, the soap, a scrub brush, and several clean rags".

Newkirk's eyes met those of Corporal Simms. Simms put down his darning, went to the sink and started filling their enamel wash basin. He did not have to be told what Simms was thinking. Simms's glare showed that he resented any additional burden, especially a menial chore, falling on Kinch's back when he was depressed. Simms would never challenge Kinch's instructions, but he had a dangerous way of expressing resentment.

Newkirk knew he had to deflect it. He moved to Kinch and whispered urgently, "Go in the tunnel and get some sleep. I'll look after things here."

Kinch shook his head.

"Go on," Newkirk persisted. "You're fagged to the bone and it's upsetting Simms."

Kinch glanced in Simms' direction, met his friend's burning gaze. "All right, but fetch me the moment the colonel leaves Klink's office." He rapped twice to open the hatch of the tunnel. Then his eyes met Newkirk's. "Thanks."

"Anytime, old man. I thought you knew that by now." He gave the sergeant's shoulder a slight push toward the shaft.

He watched Kinch descend, waiting until he was safe on the ground and clear of the ladder before rapping upon the panel to lower the lower bunk back upon its frame. Then he turned to Carter and LeBeau.

"Right," he said in a bracing voice, rubbing his hands. _Better get them doing work. They can't break down if they've got tasks to occupy their minds._ "We've got to get all this cleared away before the colonel gets back."

Carter looked at him. "Why?"

"Well," Newkirk began to splutter nervously. He took a calming breath. "Because he's not going to want to see any 'reminders', that's why." Picking up a bowl of peeled potatoes, he turned to their chef. "Where should this go, Louis?"

LeBeau shrugged, the epitome of misery. "In the sink. In the garbage. I do not care."

"Come on, mate! We've got to store this someplace." Newkirk put a tentative arm around his friend's shoulders. "Think of the big bribe we paid Schultz to get it for us."

LeBeau shook his head, but could not bring himself to speak. He let Newkirk's arm rest across his back. He needed to feel its warmth. He shivered, hugging his chest. Everything felt so cold.

Newkirk looked down at him, more worried than he cared to admit. Only two men could bring LeBeau out of such a state: the man who was about to leave them for America and the man who was now lying on his cot in the tunnel. He glanced at Simms in appeal.

The black corporal searched LeBeau's face, then nodded to the bunk covering the tunnel. "Don't disturb him if he's asleep," he commanded gruffly.

He pushed Carter toward the sink. "We'll clean up."

Nodding his thanks, Newkirk guided LeBeau to Kinch's bunk and rapped upon the panel. The French corporal looked up at the sound of the mechanism raising the bed and opening the shaft. Newkirk nodded. LeBeau decended the ladder.

Newkirk closed the tunnel, paused to gather his wits, and then turned and watched Simms beckon and prod the other men into cleaning up the aborted feast as quickly as possible. "I'll keep watch outside," he said to no one in particular.

He left the barracks and sank down on the bench beside the door. Now that he was alone with his thoughts, how was he to deal with them?

Rubbing at his lower lip, he thought over his reactions to each incident that had occurred since they had received the first message. He had envied Colonel Hogan his leave-taking, and his hero's welcome. He had certainly resented how the colonel had accepted it with no little thought for them. "Colonel Courageous" going home and taking all the glory for all the work they did, while they still took the risk and shit.

He knew it wasn't like that at all. He didn't entirely agree with all Kinch had said then. Their risks were as great as the colonel's, if not greater. Maybe Hogan gambled too freely with their lives. But he did have the heaviest responsibilities. He had to think up those brilliant plans. He had to keep them at least one step ahead of the Krauts. He had to bear the burden and the blame if even one of them was killed. It came with being an officer, and Colonel Hogan was certainly one of the best.

Hogan wasn't being honoured for what they were doing here. Not officially. The Yank general, Barton, and Crittendon and the guv's friend Group-Captain Roberts were probably the only brass at home who did know about their set-up, aside from Goldilocks herself. Barton was probably the colonel's old commanding officer. He'd have the clout to order him back home. Probably Barton had set this hero's welcome business up, to get him back in the air. After all, Colonel Hogan was an ace flier and the Allies needed aces up their sleeves.

As for going home without them, he would have done the same. _Wouldn't have given the others a thought._ It was something that colonel did belatedly realize what his command, and perhaps his men, meant to him. It was enough that he admitted it to them. He did not have to. It happened too late, but life was like that. It's like he had always said, "Get what you can. Live with what happens."

And he was glad for the guv'nor's good fortune. It could not have happened to a better officer.

He thought of England. Of flying over London. His city. His home. Of Mavis and Bessie. Of Alfie the Artist and his chums in and out of the nick. Of a girl warm in your arms and lively music and good English ale.

Then he clamped the lid on the envy bubbling up from his heart. He wasn't going home. Colonel Hogan was. Nothing they could do about it. They had to make the best of the situation – and that included dealing with the new commander.

The new group captain was an unknown quantity. Probably English, but he could be Irish, like Donovan, or Scots, or from one of the Dominions, or American _(one of those 'Eagle Squadron' blokes)_, or maybe even a Pole.

But he was probably English. The English had 'master race' notions of their own from governing an empire. He had had a few himself about Kinch when they first met. Truth was, he didn't know how to act around him then. _Serious bloke, Kinch._ Didn't fit the 'coon minstrel' stereotype he was used to from playing the music halls. It had taken a lot of adjustment on both sides to get along.

Kinch was a good man – few better – but there was no guarantee their new commanding officer would see that.

Newkirk knew the elitist outlook of the English upper classes. _Old school ties, playing fields of Eton, and all that rot._ No man was considered good enough who was not an Englishman. No Englishman was better than those with an Oxford or Cambridge sniff in their voices. This new group captain, for all his superior commando training, would likely see Kinch as a 'damn fuzzy-wuzzy', worthless for anything beyond menial labour. That may be good for Newkirk – he would finally get the chance to show he was someone – but it would not be good for Kinch.

_Not good for the operation either_, Newkirk admitted. _We've had our argle-bargles, Kinch and me, but after the guv', he's the first man I'd want in a crisis._

It also would not be good for the morale of the other prisoners of war. The non-Caucasian inmates, and Garlotti, Wagner, Ito and the other POWs of German, Italian and Japanese ancestry had it tougher than the others. Members of enemy races, they had been kept on the fringes of kriegie life, pushed around and insulted by the other men. Hogan had treated them without prejudice, and he made sure all the prisoners did. "We are all Allies," Hogan had said, with a firm smile. "No man is better than the others – except me, of course, because I'm in command." But they trusted Hogan because they saw that Hogan trusted Kinch.

If the new toff was a bigot, it would be the same problem with LeBeau. Centuries of fighting against each other had made English and French distrust fighting on the same side. There had been a lot of petty misunderstandings and very little co-operation between the two forces when this war began. _Probably still was like that with DeGaulle and Winnie. Probably worse._

Those nationalistic prejudices were always a problem, especially here, where soldiers of many nationalities and races were cooped up, sullen and anxious, under other soldiers who would more readily shoot them than guard them. Louis was easily touchy, and he did not repress his resentment. He'd blow up at anyone who insulted his pride. Anyone, whatever his rank, except Colonel Hogan. The colonel had always known LeBeau's soft spots, and had always worked _with_ the little guy's ego, not _against_ it.

_Then there's Donovan. What if the new guv'nor finds out about their Irish group-captain's past life in the I.R.A? _ They had their animosities, but Newkirk would not grass on the bogtrotter. He knew too well what it was like to run afoul of the law. He had pledged his word to Colonel Hogan, and he'd never admit it aloud, but he felt respect for Big Michael. Someone had to do the daily chores of listening to complaints, adjudicating, and trying to make the dungeon habitable while Colonel Hogan plotted and they sabotaged.

Donovan was a good plodder, and he always heard a man's story to the end; always worked on ways to improve their lot. He was Colonel Hogan's friend and any friend of the guv'nor was a friend of Peter Newkirk, no matter what his politics. Almost the last thing he wanted was for Scotland Yard or his old associates doing him in.

What about their Fräulein Doktor Falke? The new man would have to be briefed about her so he'd co-operate in getting her back to Canada when Colonel Hogan pulls his strings back home. Would he co-operate, or would he too think that she was a traitor because her government had revoked her citizenship? The colonel joked that their Red Cross liaison was just another pawn, like Klink and Schultz, but that was just to relieve his spleen. Truth was, they fought as much _for _each other as they fought each other. She had twisted her pacifist scruples into knots to care for them and the Allied flyers and agents they sent along the escape chain, and he had argued with Goldilocks time after time that she was loyal and shouldn't be as severely punished for smuggling illegal refugees into Canada. If they knew how Jews and conchies were treated in Germany, they'd give people like Marlena Nobel Prizes for trying to save them. _The colonel's not going to leave her in the lurch, not after she juggles her accounts to get us all the extra cigarettes and Klim tins she can for the operation. He'll get her home the moment he gets home, and he'll defend her even if it costs him his rank. That's the kind of bloke he is._

_Which brings me back to us. _ Newkirk rubbed his chin as he mused. _What happens to the operation, and to the camp, without the guv'nor? What if the new man's someone we can't work with? _

He heaved a sigh. _Well, we'll have to work with him. We've no choice. But Carter's right. He won't be like Colonel Hogan because there can never be another Colonel Hogan. He not only made you believe we'd win the war; but that he'd win the war, single handed. He was just giving us a treat, allowing us to help him. _

_Of course, it had helped that he was also brave, daring and clever. Inspiring. Resourceful. A bona fide hero, even though he is an American. His glamour rubbed off on everyone working for him. He made you think you were a hero too._

Newkirk sighed. _But he isn't going to be with us much longer. Once he's back in the States hobbing with the nobs, he'll forget about us. Stands to reason. He'll be comfortable, and the guv'nor's a man who likes his comforts. He'll be too busy to think of us, going to banquets and kissing birds and having medals pinned to his chest and stars to his shoulders._

_Where does that leave us? We won't forget about him. We can't. We've got to go on. But how can we go on, if we can't forget?_

* * *

Kinch stirred, opened his eyes and stared up at the man bending over him. "Is the colonel back from Klink's?"

"Non, Kinch. Restez la. I will waken you when he needs you."

The sergeant scrutinized him. "Anything you need, Louis? Anything I can do for you?"

LeBeau composed his face, but he could feel his friend reading his misery upon it. "Non, merci."

Kinch's keen eyes focused even more intensely on him. "Anything you want from me, you've got. You know that, right?"

LeBeau squirmed, but spoke gently, evenly. "Oui, merci. Moi tu aussi." He managed a smile. "There is but one thing you can do for me." He laid his hand upon his friend's chest. "Take your sleep, mon brave. You need it so. Fall deeply asleep, or I shall be much offended."

"Heaven forbid!" The sergeant mock shuddered, but settled back against the pillow. He gazed at his friend, concerned. "Louis …"

LeBeau stared deep into Kinch's eyes. "Sleep. You are drowsy. 'Dormez la. Endormir la, mon ami. Close your eyes and fall fast asleep or I shall make you eat the most revolting meal you have ever eaten in this revolting place."

Kinch looked up at him, blinking hard. "Don't want that. Promise you won't do anything rash?"

"You worry so, Kinch." LeBeau lightly stroked Kinch's brow, still holding his gaze upon him, and replied very softly, "I promise. I will not go into Carter's laboratory and poison myself. I will not hang myself with a tie, a belt, or a shoestring. I will not use your radio to electrocute myself. I will not blow up the tunnel. I will not go absent without leave. Rest content."

Kinch felt his body grow relaxed and heavy. He blinked his eyelids apart with increasing difficulty. "All right; but the moment the Colonel comes back…"

"I will awaken you." LeBeau watched Kinch's eyes slide closed; but he did not cease stroking his brow, nor did he lift the hand resting over his friend's heart until the sergeant's tall body lay limp upon the cot. He looked down at his sleeping friend's face, tracing with fond eyes the sable curves of his eyelashes, watching the hairs of his moustache stir slightly with each deep, gentle breath.

His eyes moved to the lax hands. Those sensitive, dexterous fingers could tap out a message in Morse, splice the wires of Carter's demolition packs, fist and knock unconscious a hostile foe, or calm and gently hold down a man delirious with pain or fear or fever, so that Wilson or Mlle. Docteur Falke could work upon him in safety. Those hands could do so much, but they could not restore to him his colonél.

Slowly, cautiously, LeBeau gently tucked the edge of the blanket around Kinch's body, taking infinite care not to disturb his sleep. Kinch slept so lightly during anxious times, and this certainly qualified as a time of great anxiety. As LeBeau straightened, he thought of the scars his friend bore – of the beating and scourging he had endured between his capture and his arrival with the colonél at Stalag Thirteen.

Thinking of the morning's events, LeBeau sighed. "Some scars, mon frere, bite too deeply, and can never completely heal."

He knew. He had wounds too deep to let Kinch probe. The only person he had ever permitted near them was Colonél Hogan.

LeBeau felt warm tears welling in his eyes. He wanted to weep and weep and weep. What would he do without le grand colonel? What would France do without him when he is in America? France needed Colonél Hogan for its liberation. Only his daring weakened the stranglehood of the detestable Reich upon it, because only he, and they with him, were the disease germs breeding within the monster and sapping its strength.

But weeping would disturb his friend's slumber. They needed Kinch to remain strong and clear-sighted, and Kinch needed him to help deal with Carter's grief and rebuild his courage. _André will fall apart when le colonél Hogan leaves and Newkirk will be of no help. He has no tenderness. He would mock Carter and make him feel like a foolish child_. André was not a foolish child, but he was young and still naïve. The young need heroes to emulate, and they must keep them for as long as they can._ Especially Carter. Especially now, in this war, when we are prisoners of a ruthless enemy, and carrying on most dangerous work._

Stealing another glance at Kinch, to reassure himself that he was indeed unconscious, LeBeau slipped into the emergency tunnel.

He stopped just outside the edge of the faint light cast by the kerosene lamp in the radio room. He preferred to be in darkness – close enough to sense Kinch's presence, yet to be distant from him and the entire world. He slid cautiously down along one of the supports until his bottom touched the damp, closely packed earth of the floor. Then, wrapping his arms around his knees, he leaned his head back again the wood and gave himself up to his feelings.

He had adored le Colonél Hogan from the very start of their enterprise – and even earlier. Every astounding coupe, every successful assault by daring American pilot and his squadron upon les Boches had lifted his heart into the skies. Le Colonél Hogan welded the sword of vengeance for the imprisoned, impassioned LeBeau. When he was brought down over Hamburg, LeBeau had wept in despair.

How could he have known that this marvelous man would be brought here, would choose him as a partner in performing his miracles? He would do anything for le grand Colonél, pretend meekness to Klink, even cook for Hitler, if le Colonél would make that food turn to ashes in their swine mouths.

Newkirk scoffed; but what did an Englishman know about heroism – they and their stiff upper lips and their tea and jam? They never had a Jeanne d'Arc. They never knew a Napoleon. They were too reserved to be stirred by great deeds.

After the shock and bitterness of Colonél Hogan's joyful acceptance had passed, LeBeau had denied that his hero would leave him. He could not believe he would even want to leave the work, so he had refused to believe it. Colonél Hogan would soon regain his senses, change his mind, and stay with them, where he belonged.

His faith had been vindicated. Colonél Hogan no longer wanted to leave them, but it was too late. His replacement was en route. He must go. He was ordered to go. He could not stay out of sentiment.

LeBeau felt the hot tears trickle down. He hunched forward, hugging his knees closer to bury his face in the worn cloth of his trousers, to muffle any sniffling that would waken Kinch and alert him to his misery.

He let the tears flow. It was better that he cried now, rather than later, before others. He had no wish to embarrass his colonél before his replacement, or to embarrass himself before Newkirk. Le Anglais would take it as a sign of weakness, and, to cover up his own misery and appear superior, he would either scorn him or pity him. He did not wish that, nor did he wish to dishearten le pauvre André or to add another burden to Kinch's overburdened heart. He would rather assist in bearing the burdens his friend already carried, to comfort and hearten André, and to heap fiery coals of patient saintliness upon Newkirk's head.

"_Mon colonél, why are you leaving me? Why must you go when we have not yet accomplished our work?"_

* * *

"_Wonder what's going on in there."_ Newkirk nervously wiped his mouth as he hunched forward on the bench, trying to watch the door of the Kommandantur without showing his interest to the sentries outside that door or to the guards patrolling the compound that both separated and united captors and captives. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself. So far, the news of Colonel Hogan's leave-taking and of the hero's welcome awaiting him in the United States had not leaked outside their barracks – except for the Colonel himself telling old Donovan.

Newkirk wondered how well the group-captain had taken the news. Donovan had mentored the Colonel into the tasks of senior officer those first few months in Stalag XIII. Donovan was a fair administrator, and Hogan was more comfortable as a man of action than he was listening to grievances and mediating among the men. It had been a good partnership for everyone concerned. A pity it was ending.

Again Newkirk wondered if a similar partnership would flourish under this paragon London was sending them. He hoped so. He did not want the new man upsetting their apple cart if he found out all the secrets hidden in it.

He glanced in the direction of Donovan's barracks. It was not the best of times for London to call the guv'nor home, what with the Irish group-captain stuck in his own quarters with a broken leg.

Newkirk grimaced. Couldn't he be honest with himself at least? No time would be a good time for Colonel Hogan to leave them. He did not want this new group-captain they were getting. He wanted Colonel Hogan. He knew in his bones Hogan was the only one alive who could make this operation work.

Still, the other chaps were going to find out soon enough what was in the wind and then there would be trouble. The guv'nor might not be able to hold them by the force of his personality alone, and what would happen when he was gone? They did not know the new commanding officer and he did not know them. _Donovan could hold the POW's on course for us if he was mobile – he's done it for years and all the blokes know him. _Newkirk shook his head._ No, it was not the best of times for Big Michael to be laid up._

A startled shout in German made him look up sharply. Colonel Hogan had dashed out the door – from the look of it, had vaulted over the stairs – like a man desperately in need to be someplace else. He was now standing in the compound, hands upraised. One of the sentries had his submachine gun trained on him, while the other had disappeared into the office building.

_Did the guv'nor finally shoot old Bloodless and Gutless?_

Newkirk did not dare move. No one moved. Then the second sentry re-emerged. The two goons on the porch muttered at one another. Then they both laughed. The first goon, still laughing, lowered his weapon and waved the colonel away.

"_What that was all about?"_ Newkirk muttered, but he did not have time to think further. Colonel Hogan was striding his way. He was about to go to him when he saw Hogan change direction – toward Barracks Eleven.

Newkirk's mouth went dry. He knew the moment Schultz had summoned the colonel to Klink's office that it would be about the 'replacement'. That Colonel Hogan would tell Donovan first who the man was was a given, but why was he in such an awful steam? This new man was all to the good, wasn't he?

_Something's gone wrong. I just knew it. Something's gone wrong._

He slipped into the barracks and pulled Carter up from scrubbing the floor. "Get Kinch and LeBeau up here, quick as you can."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know; but get them up here. The Colonel's gone to Eleven and I've never seen him so angry. He nearly got shot by Klink's goons, and they laughed at him." He pushed Carter to Kinch's bunk. "Don't stand there gaping at me. Go down the tunnel and fetch them up."

Carter nodded quickly and hastened down the ladder. Newkirk leaned back against the frame and squeezed his eyelids shut. Getting Colonel Hogan home was causing more worry than a visit from Hochstetter.

* * *

"Louie! Kinch! Something's happened!"

LeBeau hastily rose at Carter's cry and ran back to the radio room. Carter was shaking Kinch awake and Kinch was fending him off, ordering him to calm down and speak coherently.

"I don't know what's happened, Kinch. All I know is that Newkirk said the Colonel came out of Klink's office breathing fire and that I was supposed to get you and LeBeau before he comes back from the group-captain." Carter gulped. "Newkirk's white as a ghost. He says the colonel nearly got shot by Klink's doormen."

LeBeau and Kinch exchanged glances. "What do you think, mon ami?" LeBeau whispered.

Kinch rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "I'm going to need a good, stiff, drink before our new C.O. arrives. Maybe two. Maybe the whole bottle." He looked from LeBeau to Carter. "Let's not panic yet."

"But Newkirk said they laughed. The goons did. At the colonel." Carter's eyes dilated. "Something's wrong, right?"

"The colonel will tell us when he's ready." Kinch squeezed Carter's arm. "Tell Newkirk not to panic the guys. If the colonel went to Donovan, he's got everything under control. You and Louis go. I'll be up in a minute."

Kinch waited for Carter and LeBeau to leave him. Then he rose, poured out a bowlful of tepid water and scrubbed his face with a cloth_. "Colonel, I wish you weren't leaving. I'm really having my doubts about this 'darn good man' they've sent us."_


	4. Meanwhile, Around and About the Camp

_This occurs at the same time Carter is clambering down the shaft to fetch Kinch and LeBeau._

Colonel Hogan stalked across the compound, passing several of his men without acknowledgement; muttering "Crittendon. Chop. Chop." He barely felt their anxious and perplexed stares.

Donovan would explain it all to them after he's been told. He was not up to making a public announcement that he had doomed them.

How was he going to tell his men that their new commanding officer was that blundering, self satisfied idiot Rodney Crittendon?

'_Commando training.' 'Martial arts expert.' Crittendon? That goof couldn't cross a room without stubbing his toe and howling about it._

He stopped when he was sure Klink could no longer see him. After carefully making sure he was not observed, he ducked into a secluded alleyway between the delousing station and the small camp infirmary.

He had discovered a number of such spots throughout camp - 'do not disturb' places where he could think and plan in solitude.

He could intercept Marlena Falke from here, and reassure her that he would not forget to keep his promise to her when he got home. He'd make it a condition. _"I won't accept any medals or sell any war bonds unless you repatriate my friend Maria Helena Falke, clear her record and reinstate her as a medical doctor. There, Marlena. The sacrifices I make for you. Who says I'd go back on my word?"_

And from here, where new prisoners were brought in, stripped and fumigated, he would probably see Crittendon before Crittendon or Klink saw him. Then he'd have a few minutes to slip out and warn his men, and they would not have time to mutter protests.

_I'm a coward, he muttered. Too afraid to face them. Too afraid to face up to myself. _

He should inform Donovan immediately, and he must break the news to his men, but he needed to calm down and think.

_Crittendon! They're giving my operation – my men – to Crittendon! Doesn't the High Command want to win the war? Then why stick my guys with Crittendon?_

Hogan fought down his irritation. _Maybe Crittendon can cut it after all. That crossbow bit was no more farfetched than some of my stunts. Three out of my four guys showed then that they would willingly follow him, and Kinch will put his duty before his contempt. _

_Maybe Crittendon's learned to listen. After all, that rigorous commando training must have wised him up._

Hogan shook his head in disbelief. When he heard from Klink that Crittendon was his successor, he wanted to punch the Kommandant right in his gloating, monocled, reptilian face. The impulse he now fought was to put his head in his hands and give up the war. His thoughts buzzed around him like mosquitoes buzzing around a warm body. He had told his men earlier that he had begun to realize just what this command had meant to him. Little had he known, even when he spoke, how much it really had meant to him.

Yeah, there was a lift to flying, to look down like God on the enemy you're destroying, of dodging fighters like a sparrow dodging hawks.

But here was the real thrill: outfoxing them in their own dens of iniquity. Having them eat out of his hand or blinding their eyes with their own bigoted arrogance and watching them gape when their fantastic wonder weapon disintegrates or they discover their closely guarded secrets aren't secret anymore.

How satisfying it was to torment Klink, taunt Hochstetter and bother Burkhalter, to see the looks of baffled rage on their faces and on those of every other Kraut whose path he had crossed. It beat the routine of flying a bomber 30,000 feet in the sky, dropping his eggs over targets that resembled one another and just guessing at the havoc he had caused.

Why had he thought he could leave this command to anyone else, even to Donovan?

_I wanted to go home. I wanted clean, soft blankets, good food and fine wines. I wanted to finally relax and not have to pretend to be the model POW to Klink, the model commanding officer to Carter._

_I wanted to be free of the burden of risking the men I care about, to be free of the fear that haunts me day and night, that my luck will run out and they'll die before my eyes._

He had to prepare them for Crittendon. But it was like telling condemned men they would die at dawn.

A grisly image came to him: of Kinch, bound, lashed, bruised and bloodied, dying on the concrete floor under the kicks of polished black jackboots.

Another image surfaced: of Carter – trusting, naïve, eager to do all he can Carter – whimpering in pain and trying to be brave under torture.

LeBeau, chained to the wall, staring down at his friend Kinch's agony with tear filled saucer eyes.

Newkirk, cursing the Krauts with his lips, willing Carter to keep his courage and his silence.

_Get a grip on yourself, Colonel. You're still in command. Think. Crittendon will have them dead on his first mission. You've got to get them out of this mess._

_Crittendon thinks Carter's our best man. He'll throw him into something beyond his limitations and not hear any excuses. They'd be valid ones too. Carter's brain sometimes disengages, but when he keeps focused, he's no fool. And Carter's got no storybook illusions that espionage is a gentleman's game, played by Marquis of Queensbury's rules. He knows there's no room for noble sentiments when you're caught._

Crouching behind a garbage bin and easing his back against the infirmary wall, Hogan looked up at the rectangle of sky above his head. Its serene blue made him want to curse Nature, God, Fate, the war. He did not know who or what, and what did it matter? Cursing wasn't going to save the situation, or let him off free.

He pulled out the message from London and stared down at it. His radioman's familiar block capital printing seemed to burn through the paper and into his hand.

"_Trained commando. Sabotage expert."_ He groaned, crushing the message in his fist. _Crittendon?_

Maybe Donovan could protect them from Crittendon. He could argue with Crittendon as group-captain to group-captain. _Mike's had a lot of years under his belt. Crittendon couldn't outrank him by much._

But Crittendon was such a stickler for the proprieties that, should he discover Donovan's Fenian past – and Carter could innocently, or Newkirk not so innocently, let that cat out of the bag – he would turn him over to Scotland Yard. What a reward for Big Michael's trust and loyalty!

Despite what Marlena Falke thought of his 'arrogant, inflated ego', Hogan knew he was not omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent. He had needed a strong, wise, practical manager to deal with the men and the 'household tasks', freeing him to plot and plan. Providence had given him two of the best in Donovan and Kinch; and both they and LeBeau could be lost to the operation due to Crittendon's boneheaded xenophobia.

Hogan did not care what lies Big Michael had told about his past to re-enlist in the Royal Air Force. As Senior British Officer, he had ensured the obedience of the R.A.F.'s and the Empire's airmen. He had ensured as well that the non-combatant cover over their clandestine operation was secure, and that the daily needs of the prisoners of war were met.

And Kinch and LeBeau were Kinch and LeBeau. One saw to the integrity of the operation, and the other to the needs of the escapees sheltered by it.

Hogan caught sight of a swish of blue skirt. He rose to a crouch, then grinned, diverted by the sound of Doktor Falke ticking someone off. In English, so it was not one of the guards.

Flattening his body against the delousing station wall, he watched Fraulein Doktor Falke, hands on hips, scold Sergeant Wilson while her escort, Corporal Langenscheidt, looked on, vainly attempting not to snicker. Hogan felt sorry for the medic, but relieved that he was for once not getting the edge of the lady physician's tongue.

_How do I explain Marlena to Crittendon? Unless London's briefed him, he doesn't know a thing about her. And what London thinks they know isn't the truth. What if we can't get it through his thick skull that Marlena's not a traitor?_

Hogan scowled, kicked at a cigarette butt. He checked his watch. Two p.m. Fourteen hundred hours. Ten hours ago, he had gone over the details of a sabotage mission with his guys – a really sweet job to put out both the Berlin Express and the Kessling Oil Refinery at the same time.

He squeezed his eyes shut. _Best command I ever had. Best crew in the world – and I've got to give them up to_ _that dunderhead Crittendon because I wanted to go home in glory. Kinch … LeBeau … Guys…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."_

Hogan thought of the round of the camp he had made that morning. _Donovan thought that walk would soften me up. Dear mushy Irish heart._ He took another glance at the sky. _He was right. It did_.

He recalled how the men greeted him: waves, cheery salutes, calling out to him to ask him questions or show him things. A far cry from that first walk round he had taken in Big Michael's company. A very far cry. Then, the men had been sullen and depressed. Depressed because his being here was a blow to the Allies. He had been a famous pilot whose daring missions wreaked so much havoc on the Germans. That was the reason for the hero's welcome. Sullen because … well, he had acquired the reputation being an elitist snob, and of sacrificing men thoughtlessly to gain the kill. The men had thought the worst of him, and they thought they would get the worst from him.

Perhaps he had been callous and arrogant in the lifetime before he was shot down. Everything had gone his own way until then. Perhaps his downfall was hubris. He never thought he would owe his life to a black staff sergeant. He never thought he'd care about the man, or any of his men here, or any of the crews he had left or lost; but he did. All he wanted then was for his crew to bail out and live. That's all he wanted - to save his men before he died.

Now that's all he wanted to do before he left for home – to save his men from the hubris of his reckless acceptance.

He had to leave them behind or risk a court-martial for disobedience to orders. He did not want his career to end in disgrace. But why couldn't he have left the men in Donovan's big hands? Mike was a better chess player than he appeared on the surface. A very shrewd man behind his Irish hail-fellow-well-met. The guys would have done well under his command, especially with Kinch beside him.

_Newkirk said it once for both of us. No one I'd rather have backin' me up than Kinch. _

_I thought I didn't need to say it to him. Kinch always could read me. Sometimes he could read me too well. Sherlock Holmes said that a cohort who could read your moves was dangerous, which was why Holmes preferred Watson and his perpetual amazement to a smarter man. But then, Sherlock Holmes never knew Kinch._

_Perhaps I didn't either. I wouldn't appreciate that Kinch, and Newkirk, could see me with open eyes and still be loyal._

He was a manipulator. It was the way to survive and get ahead – by seeking your rivals' weak spots and taking advantage of their fears, their fantasies, their faults and their foibles.

He enjoyed manipulating the Krauts like chess pawns. Why shouldn't Marlena Falke accuse him of manipulating her and his men as well? He poked his thorn in her side as much as she poked hers in his, and the sharp point of his thorn was her love for his men. He could not control her with his promise. She thought he did not want to get her home free, even if she could believe he could work it for her.

"Take care of your men, Colonel. Trust them more than you do." She would do anything for them because she feared his power over them. If that was heartless manipulation, so be it. He had never set himself up as a knight in shining armour.

"_I have to risk their lives, Doktor Pacifist. I can't coddle them, or you, or myself. But I long for peace as much as you do. I want all of us home safe, but I also want us home free."_

Hogan thought of what his men were up against. Crittendon, unlike Donovan, was very much a fool. The first time he arrived at Stalag XIII, Hogan was prepared to obey protocol towards the ranking officer and turn the operation over to him. Then, just in time, Crittendon informed him that he would report to Klink any nefarious doings short of attempting escape. It would not be correct behaviour among gentlemen if he did not. _We could hardly tell him about the tunnel then._

Newkirk and Carter had managed to keep Crittendon away from the tunnel and near the wire long enough for him to get caught attempting to escape. Klink transfered him to Stalag Luft XVI. _Pity he did not stay put when we had to spring an assassin from there._ Not only did he tag along, he made so much noise that the guards fired upon them, wounding the assassin and nearly capturing the others. Kinch had to risk his own life to pull Crittendon bodily into their cozy little hideaway.

Hogan let out an exasperated sigh. Kinch was entitled to make a mistake, but why did it have to be saving Crittendon's life?

At least Crittendon didn't blow their setup to Klink. In fact, he thought the guys had sprung him to assassinate the atom scientist sheltering in their Stalag. _He must have read John Buchan's spy tales and fancied himself another Richard Hannay. Just what I needed – another fan of storybook heroics._

Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau had been all too eager to help him with his dotty schemes of shooting the scientist with a crossbow – _from where did Newkirk steal that crossbow anyway?_ – and blowing him up with the rest of the camp.

_We got the scientist safely to England and somehow that pompous ass Crittendon got there safely too. Now he's come back, to take command of my operation._

Hogan slapped the dirt off his pants. He vowed to say a few hard words about that to his friend Group Captain James Roberts, Air Marshall Tedder's aide, the moment he landed in London. _"What's the idea, Robbie, of letting the brass stick my men with Crittendon? Did you set up this 'hero's welcome' up to see me again or to get him out of your boss's hair?"_

Emerging cautiously from the alley, Hogan looked around, taking in the barbed wire, the goon towers, the unpainted, uninsulated wooden barracks, the grey desperation of his surroundings. The only thing that had made the place habitable was the tunnel beneath it. The tunnel, and the men who worked in it.

Sauntering toward Barracks Two as if he hadn't a care in the world, he paused to watch Sergeant Wilson and Doktor Falke help Donovan hop the few steps from the door to the bench outside Barracks Eleven, fussing between them over raising and positioning the group captain's cast upon the mound of pillows Donovan's men were heaping on a stool. He saw their solicitude for his friend and bit back a smile. Michael must've cajoled and ranted like the devil for either of them to let him leave his bed.

He seemed to sense Marlena Falke's dark blue eyes glaring at him. "As dark as a Great Lakes' gale," Kinch had called them, and he had not exaggerated. Hogan, a New Englander, knew similar storms all too well. Hardened sailors have gabbled prayers when caught in them.

"_All right, Marlena. I admit that, for once, I deserve a little of your scorn. I wanted to go home to the glory of a hero's welcome. But you want to go home too. Who wouldn't, especially from Hitler Hilton?"_

His gaze softened. _"You'll be home and free soon, Doktor Pacifist. The very second I touch foot in England, I'm getting you home."_

He turned his attention to the men washing their clothes outside Barracks Five. He watched the garbage detail pick up the litter that always lay about the compound. He smiled as he saw Davis and McMahon take up duelling positions, crossing their pokers like rapiers in front of Cottelli, who was sketching them from his bench outside Barracks Three. He watched Olsen join them, saw Cottelli brush his brown curls out of his eyes, and recalled that Private Enrico Cottelli was only nineteen years old. How much of his youth must be wasted before he can go home to the vineyards of California? Same with Carter and North Dakota. How much longer for Donovan, the veteran of far too much conflict? Mike was here since November '41. How much longer for LeBeau, who's been holed up even longer than that? For Kinch and Newkirk with their sisters worrying about them? What of Wilson, who has to endure not only camp life but Doktor Falke as well?

_These men gave up their freedom because I ordered them to. They have to endure this without a reward, win or lose, and most of them don't know why. They are the heroes. They are entitled to go home ahead of me._

He could not stand still. He had to pace this problem out. He started for the path around the perimeter of the camp – the track of earth near the wire, worn smooth by the feet of patrolling guards and of prisoners longing to be as close to freedom as they dared to get.

Myoperation. Not for much longer. Hogan shuddered. They all knew what Crittendon was like, but Kinch was the only one who kept his common sense throughout the last debacle. _Kinch can't keep Crittendon from making a fool's blunder that will expose everything. Not when Crittendon has the authority to overrule him, and the authority to dismiss him from his position. The pompous ass doesn't even listen to Newkirk – and Newkirk's as English as Lipton tea. _

Newkirk and Kinch might still be able to work together, even if Crittendon promotes Newkirk into Kinch's job. They respect each other, despite their different temperaments. They'll stand together to protect Carter and LeBeau and all we've worked for, no matter what divides them. And Carter and LeBeau always listen to Kinch and Newkirk.

_Yeah. It will work out all right. Everything will work out okay._

_Besides,_ Hogan thought to himself, _maybe they'd prefer Crittendon to me, after I jumped at the chance to walk out on them._

He thought of what Newkirk had said, of what Carter had tried to say. He found some comfort in their words: "We're proud to have served with you, Sir." "They don't make 'em like you, Sir. No, Sir, there will never be another Colonel Hogan." He thought of Kinch sacrificing his rest, "standing by" the radio to satisfy his commanding officer's impatience. He thought of the food he saw on the table, all the dishes LeBeau knew were his favourites. Food fit for a hero. _No, for Heroes. His Heroes._

He struck the wall with his fist. _I'm human. I'm like any other man. Who would not want to go home? Just because I was too happy to think of them did not mean I did not care about them. _

_I'm their commanding officer. I can't afford to make friends of the men whose lives I risk._

_And it was an order. I was ordered home._

He stared ruefully down at his reddening hand. _ But it was an order I should have questioned. _

_A responsible officer puts the mission before the men, and he puts his men before himself. We're in a PoW camp. I can't just up and leave. Even Klink would get suspicious if he didn't see my smiling face every day. _

_Crittendon will probably spill the whole set up. "Hogan? Oh, he just popped back to the States, don't you know? Seems someone wanted to give him a hero's welcome. Perhaps for building that secret tunnel beneath your feet, eh wot?"_

Hogan groaned at the thought of the goons hacking through the floorboards and finding the tunnel. _Everything we've put together, everything we've done together – destroyed._ He groaned at the sight he envisioned: his men, strung up by their necks, butchered by Hochstetter. He could almost touch Kinch's dead hand, Carter's dangling corpse.

_No. Everything will be fine. Crittendon can't be as stupid as I think he is. He's a group captain, for Pete's sake, like Roberts and Donovan. They aren't fools. He ranks with me, a full colonel. I'm not a fool. And Kinch will protect the operation. He always has. Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau will back him up. They've stood up to me. They'll stand up to Crittendon. They aren't fools. They know what's at stake._

_Everything will be fine. Everything will work out_.

The men looked at his thundercloud face and fell silent. He saw their inquiring stares turn nervous.

Hogan felt a sudden irritation. "Why didn't you listen in?" he shot at Kinch.

Kinch blinked, stung, but quietly reminded him of his own standing order. "We're not to listen in on you unless you instruct us to do so, sir."

"Yeah. Sorry." He turned from them, stalling while he poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove.

He could not take their troubled glances. How would they react when he told them who their new commanding officer was?

Inhaling deeply, he turned and motioned them to resume their seats around the mess table. He noticed it no longer bore their preparations for his surprise party. It was thoughtful of the men to clear them out of sight.

They would not have a party now. They would not embarrass him by eulogizing him in front of his replacement.

And his replacement was Crittendon.

Hogan paced up and down the room, not daring to look at his men watching him from their seats. He felt LeBeau's worried eyes burn into him, sensed Carter fidget and open his mouth, sensed Kinch shoot Carter a 'stay put and shut up' glare and saw him tug Newkirk down by the sleeve to keep them silently in place.

He saw Newkirk scowl at Kinch and subside onto his own stool. He saw the corporal dart his eyes to him, then to Carter, then to LeBeau, and then to him again. He saw the worried, perplexed frown Newkirk then gave Kinch, and Kinch's grimace and slight nod.

LeBeau kept his eyes on his colonél as if his colonél would vanish if he glanced away. Carter, seated on the bunk across from Kinch, looked from his colonel to his fellow sergeant in growing agitation.

Hogan paused in his pacing. 'Everything will be fine. It will all turn out okay," he told them, as if trying to convince himself, not them.

He saw Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter immediately turn to Kinch. He could not suppress a rueful smile. _Item number Two of the operation's creed: We'll believe the colonel if Kinch does._

Kinch did not look convinced. Apparently, he was working out his data. Carter nudged him with his knee and his eyes to speak. Kinch had always been their spokesman. But Kinch remained mute.

Hogan glanced at his radioman, and then hastily glanced away. He could not meet his anxious, thoughtful dark eyes.

_Carter will accept Crittendon gladly_, he thought. _Carter accepts any man who has faith in him and Crittendon believes Carter's our best man. _

_LeBeau's ambiguous. He knows Crittendon's a dunce, but he gets swept away by his enthusiasms, and Crittendon has that 'gung-ho' vitality that arouses them. _

_Newkirk will accept the inevitable, and Crittendon's the inevitable. _

_Kinch won't. Kinch cannot abide a fool other than Carter, and he stands Carter because deep down, Carter's no fool._

_But Kinch is used to managing stubborn officers. He has certainly had practice being tactful with me. Sometimes I don't know who has managed whom. He's also good at repairing Carter's snafus. Could Crittendon's be any worse?_

Hogan tried in vain to recall a moment when Crittendon had spoken to Kinch directly or even looked him in the eyes.

Hogan felt Kinch's dark eyes fix on him. _Yeah. You've figured it right, but you don't want to accept it. How could Crittendon pass through commando training? He couldn't last out a pillow fight. Our pacifist Fraulein Doktor would be a better saboteur._

_Don't blame me that it's Crittendon, Kinch. I didn't ask for him._

He had to stop pacing. He had to tell them. But he could not bring himself to do it.

"It's bad news, isn't it, mon colonél."

He paused, at looked at LeBeau. "Not necessarily. It could be good news, or it could be bad news. It's up to you what news it is."

_Maybe it is all for the best. Maybe the guys would prefer even Crittendon to a leader who leaves them behind for a hero's welcome at a moment's notice._

"It will be all right." He made a calming gesture with his hands. The men looked even more alarmed. "Everything will turn out o.k."

_I hope._


	5. Meanwhile, In the Barracks and Beneath t...

_Slightly corrected, with thanks to netrat, who spotted an obvious error._

_After Crittendon has entered Hogan's room and the men have extinguished the fire in the hamper._

LeBeau swayed. Hogan caught his groping arm and eased him down onto the nearest bunk. "Mon colonél! Please! Do not leave us to him."

Hogan turned away from his beseeching eyes. What could he say to that? "Kinch, inform Goldilocks the drop was successful." His words choked him, but he clung to his command deportment.

Kinch acknowledged the order with a muted "Right, Colonel," and hastened toward the shaft.

Hogan watched him descend. _No unwanted gestures, looks or words. No pleas. No recriminations. _He slowly followed, rapped on the panel and watched the bunk lower into place. The men saw his neck constrict once, twice, a third time, as if swallowing back something hard.

Hogan stared down at the bunk for several minutes. Then he turned to Newkirk. "I'll … I'll be in Barracks Eleven. See to things, huh?" He jerked his head slightly to LeBeau.

Newkirk nodded. "Right, sir."

Carter started to his feet. "You want me to tell him, Colonel? Just say the word, boy, … err, sir and … well, just tell me what you want done, and I'll do it. Yes, sir!" He bobbed his head vigorously, eager to dispel any doubts.

Hogan turned back from the door, his lips twitching back a smile at Carter's earnestness. "I'll be safe enough. The group-captain won't bite me, and he can't catch me with a broken leg."

The young sergeant swallowed and tried to smile. "It's not his bite that worries me, Colonel; but he sure has a bark."

Hogan could not keep the wry smile off his face. "I won't mind that. Right now, I need someone I can shout back at."

Carter's mouth twisted self-deprecatingly. "Heck, Colonel! I always thought that was why you kept me around."

Hogan opened his mouth to toss off a quip. Then he saw the devoted, resolute man looking at him though the brown eyes of the shy, stumble tongued boy. An incredible humility washed over him. _How many times have I shut Carter up? A lesser guy would have nursed a grudge as big as Mount Rushmore for that, but our Andrew offers to confront Donovan for me._

He crossed over to him and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. "Be fair. Just because you're our explosives' genius, why should you have the fun of detonating Big Michael?"

"Fun?" Carter held back a snort. Newkirk and Olsen, listening in, were not so quick. Hogan gave them a dirty look, and then turned back to Carter.

"He's been cooped up in his room day and night. He's aching to explode over something. When he finds out Crittendon's the new C.O. and since Crittendon's here because of me … ." Hogan shrugged and grimaced. "Believe me, Carter, he'd welcome the chance to blow off and, the way I feel, so would I."

"Oh." Carter scuffed at the grit on the floor. "I never thought of it that way."

Hogan gave the young sergeant's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Just be near the others, where I can find you." He looked at him soberly. "Andrew, do me this one favour. Think hard before you say anything, before you do anything. I want you home safe."

Carter nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

"Good." Hogan tousled his hair. Then he moved to the outer door and put his hand on the knob. Turning back, he grinned his mischievous grin. "Keep inside and cover your ears. This will be quite a blast."

"So it's Crittendon, sir."

Hogan looked into Donovan's steely blue eyes and knew this would be tougher than he had imagined.

"So you already know."

Donovan nodded grimly. "I badgered Wilson and the good Fraulein Doktor into letting me sit outside. When their backs were turned, a few of m' lads carried me closer to the compound. What I saw nearly toppled me from their arms." He gave Hogan a baleful look from beneath his bushy brows. "Colonel, whatever y'wish about returnin' home, y'cannot leave us ta him. I will not allow it."

"I don't want to leave you, Mike, and I certainly don't want to leave you and the men to Crittendon; but the damage is done." Hogan sat and hunched forward on the stool beside the big Irishman's bunk. "What can I do?"

"Think of a scheme to rid us of him, man!"

"I've been racking my brain since Klink told me!" Hogan put his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, but it's like stuffing a genii back inside its bottle."

The angry light went out of Donovan's eyes. He let out a gusty sigh. "I'm sorry for m'rage, Robbie. None of this has been your fault. Can you blame it on an injured man's frustration that he can't be of use to you?"

"Mike, you're always of use to me, bedridden or active." Hogan reached under Donovan's bunk and pulled out the group captain's whisky bottle. He poured out a glass and offered it to him.

"I think I'd prefer drinking from the bottle this time, sir." Donovan raised his eyes to heaven. "Crittendon!"

Hogan passed him the bottle with a hollow laugh.

Donovan raised it in a formal salute. "T' your health, Colonel."

"To your health, Group-Captain," Hogan replied, just as formally. Then he rested his hand on Donovan sleeve. "To your very good health, Michael."

"Long may we both live, Robbie."

They drank in silence, each man thinking of the many drinks and conversations they had shared, of all they had gone through together.

Donovan raised the bottle. "I wish we could stuff the genii inside you," he mused.

Hogan looked up at the amber fluid. "Now I know how Pandora felt." He glanced at Donovan's perplexed face. "A woman in Greek mythology, known for prying into things she was not to know about. She opened a box labeled "Do not open". All the plagues and evils that had been locked inside flew out and spread over the world."

Donovan chuckled mirthlessly. "You're too much of a man to be a woman, Robbie."

"But Crittendon's a first class plague. If you've any idea how to box him up and send him to old Scramble Brains, I'm listening."

"Wish I did. T'would be a coupe for the Allies if he defected to the Germans; but he'd never turn traitor, even out of pretense." Donovan started to sing in a strong baritone. " 'For in spite of all temptations / T' belong to other nations / He remains an Englishman.'" He grimaced. "Aye. He remains an Englishman, and, for all his faults, one of the finest. Yet, I thought his sort of Colonel Blimp was only to be found on the musical stage."

"Or moldering away in a gentleman's club, his whiskey and soda beside him, and his leg propped upon a hassock." Rising, Hogan tweaked the Irishman's great toe.

Donovan pulled a pillow from behind his back and threw it at the colonel. "I will miss you, Robbie," he retorted with a wince and a laugh.

Hogan caught the pillow and lobbed it back at him. "You've missed me already."

"Because y'dodged." Then Donovan sobered. "I _will_ miss you, Robbie. I'll miss you greatly."

Hogan gripped his outstretched hand. "You're coming to America with me after the war. They'll want you at M.I.T. You won't have to hide any more."

Donovan stared at him in astonishment. "You've never heard of extradition, Colonel? And what makes y'think m'old associates won't have friends in America?"

"You're coming anyway. We'll work something out." Hogan tightened his hold on his hand. "Promise you'll come to America. Promise me, Mike. Kinch and I won't let you regret it."

Donovan tried to pull away, panic eyed. "Robbie. Y'don't know what you're asking. Don't get involved in m'life. It's too dangerous."

"You're my friend, and I live for danger. I'm 'Reckless Robert Hogan', remember?" Hogan laughed, yet held his grip. "And if you think Kinch isn't going to meet that danger at your side, you don't know him. Promise, Mike. Promise you'll come to the States."

Donvan stared at him. "Y' won't let me refuse," he murmured.

"No. I won't. Neither will Kinch. We won't let you fight alone any more."

The big Irishman shook his head for several seconds. "How can I resist your blandishments? Verra well. I promise, if only t' share another glass wi' you again. But I won't have Kinchin put in peril. Let it be just you and me."

Hogan released his hand and rabbit punched his shoulder. "Verra well, and well done then," he replied, mimicking Donovan's brogue.

"I hope so." Donovan said doubtfully. He looked at his smiling, impetuous American friend with a mixture of awe and apprehension. _Just like the dear reckless scoundrel he is, to put his neck in the noose for a comrade. _

He cleared his throat. "Of course, t'is provisional on all of us surviving Crittendon. Robbie, if y'don't find a way to get him out, then, I beg you, take Carter and as many men as y'can with you when y'leave, and have Schultz shoot the rest of us. T'would be the humane act."

Hogan shook his head. "Mike, the first loophole I find, I'm pushing you and the guys through first. **That's** my promise."

Donovan tilted his head. "An' what of Doktor Falke?"

Hogan smiled, pouring out another tumbler of whiskey. "Of course, her too. I'd love to sic her on Crittendon; but not even Marlena deserves that."

Crittendon came out of his quarters, wearing Hogan's bathrobe and smoothing back his thick, wavy brown hair. He scanned the barracks; evidently looking for someone whom he thought should be there but was not. He evidently also expected something to occur.

Although Carter was present, he picked out Newkirk, as Newkirk was the only man wearing RAF blue. "Well, Corporal? Why don't you call the men to attention?"

Newkirk put down the scorched rag that was once his shirt and slowly rose, motioning the other men to fall into line.

Crittendon harrumphed, glaring at him. "I expect you men to come to attention the moment an officer enters these chambers, and, Corporal, I expect you to salute when spoken to." Crittendon said severely. He waited, his frown deepening.

Stiff at attention, Newkirk managed a salute and, through gritted teeth a "Yes, Sir"; while longing for Hogan, Donovan, anyone but this buffoon to be his commanding officer. Hogan had never demanded the rights of his rank (except to be addressed by it), and Donovan, in his time, had never pushed such minor matters as coming to attention and saluting every time he entered a room.

Crittendon inspected the men critically.

"Well, well. A new broom always sweeps clean," he said with heavy heartiness. "Colonel Hogan has let you get very sloppy and scruffy; but I'll soon have you taut and trim again." He puffed out his chest. "Vigorous calisthenics, a dozen or two brisk laps around the perimeter after morning and evening parade, weekly hygiene inspections and a daily scrub down of the barracks will put you to rights in a jiffy."

Newkirk groaned. Granted that there was something to be said for neat and tidiness and a 'sound mind in a sound body'; added to the usual household chores, Crittendon's regime would waste the energy they needed to perform well below ground.

Fortunately, Crittendon did not hear him. He was surveying the barracks with a look of disgust. "Why isn't Colonel Hogan here?" he demanded. "I specifically wanted to formally change over command and to address the men at 0430 o'clock, p.m."

"Colonel Hogan is informing Group-Captain Donovan of your arrival. Sir." Crittendon looked at him in bewilderment. "He's the next ranking officer after Colonel Hogan. Sir."

"Then why isn't he here to meet me? Hogan should have had him summoned."

"The group-captain is confined to quarters with a broken leg. Sir." He bit off each 'sir' as if biting off a tough piece of meat, resentful at the slur to his commander.

"Oh? Deuced careless of him." Crittendon looked around again. "Why didn't the big Negro run that errand? Not good form for an officer to do the work of an underling."

"_Sergeant Kinchloe_ is informing London of your safe arrival. Sir."

Carter blinked at the emphasis Newkirk had given to Kinch's rank and full surname, and at the glare his friend no longer bothered to hide from Crittendon. He heard LeBeau beside him mutter something hostile in rapid French, saw Simms jerk his chin up. He felt steamed himself. Crittendon was an officer, but he didn't like his tone of voice. Stating Kinch's race like that and calling him an underling was not polite.

Crittendon harrumphed. "Yes. Well. Yes." He harrumphed again, sensing the sudden tension. "Just step into my office, if you please, Corporal. I think we should get the matter over with, now that it's been brought up." He crossed the threshold and motioned Newkirk to follow.

"Right, sir." Newkirk looked at Simms, then at LeBeau. "Tell Kinch I didn't want this," he muttered.

Simms nodded, eyes fierce and lips compressed. LeBeau emitted a weak, "Oui."

"What was that all about?" Carter demanded after the door closed behind Newkirk.

LeBeau sighed. "It means that Crittendon will order Newkirk to take Kinch's place as chief of operations."

Carter gaped. "But he can't! Colonel Hogan chose Kinch."

"Oh, but he can, mon ami." LeBeau said sadly. He looked down at his hands. "He is our commanding officer now, not Colonél Hogan." He sighed. "It is to Newkirk's credit that he does not want to take it from Kinch." He looked up at Carter. "At least you do not have to fear losing your place. Colonél Crittendon thinks well of you."

Carter swallowed, thinking of his precious laboratory. He would miss it; but this was more important. He squared his shoulders, and got his words out in a shaky, yet resolute voice. "If he won't keep Kinch, I won't work for him."

LeBeau reached across the wooden table to him. "Do not fret. Newkirk will see that Kinch is kept. He knows the operation needs you both."

"What about you?" Carter looked at the little man anxiously. "He'll want you, won't he? I mean, how could he do without you?"

LeBeau smiled grimly. "André, you truly are the finest of friends. Non. I doubt that he will care to have me. He is the type of Englishman who distains all those who are not English."

"But I'm not English!"

"You, mon ami, are Le Grand Exception. He believes in you."

"But I can't work for him if he doesn't believe in you and Kinch," Carter bowed his head. "I – I don't know if I can believe in myself, without you guys and Newkirk and Colonel Hogan."

LeBeau came around the table, and cupped his hands around his friend's shoulders. "Listen, mon brave. Mon André. We believe in you. Kinch. Newkirk. Myself. Olsen, Simms, Foster, and the rest. All of us. So believe in yourself." He squeezed his shoulders bracingly. "We may no longer be part of the group, but we will still be with you. You will be fine."

Carter turned, searched LeBeau's face. "You really think so?"

"I know so. Colonél Hogan chose you, and he always makes the right choices." LeBeau rallied him. "Le colonél has always believed in you. Take courage in that."

Carter's eyes dropped to his shoes. "I told Kinch I wouldn't if he …"

"And Kinch told you that you must obey your officer, did he not? Kinch understands, and so do I."

"But I'll blow up the tunnel … do something stupid …"

"Non. You will be careful. You know you must, so you will," LeBeau soothed. "You have done so well so far. I have confidence in you."

Carter still looked doubtful and anxious. "All right. If you guys believe in me, and if the Colonel believes in me, then I guess I can believe in myself."

He did not need to clarify which 'Colonel' he meant. LeBeau clapped him on both shoulders. "Oui. And Newkirk will be with you. That is settled now." He bent and whispered in Carter's ear. "Go and help Simms with darning his sock."

"Why?"

"Because you can darn a sock well, and because the good Marcus knows what is happening inside there and is trying his hardest not to resent it. If you help him darn his socks, he will know that you are trying to help him keep his temper." He gave Carter a little push. "Go make your offer, André."

Carter hesitated. Simms in a hostile mood was more dangerous than a mountain lion. "Well, all right."

LeBeau watched Carter shuffle over to Simms' bunk. He saw the corporal's scowl disappear as he listened to Carter's shy offer of assistance. With an inward sigh of relief, LeBeau saw Simms make room for Carter and hand over his sock. He watched the dark and fair heads bend over the darning egg, heard Carter's voice grow less hesitant as he explained what to do. He saw Simms give Carter one of his rare affectionate smiles.

LeBeau too smiled. Their camaraderie would keep those two from brooding. Simms was not so case hardened against the paleskinned that he did not care about Carter; and Carter was not case hardened at all. He never liked to think about his bombs hurting people.

Newkirk came out then, looking haggard. He paused, then tiptoed past Simms and Carter, to where LeBeau stood by the stove. He picked up his cup, filled it with coffee, took a swallow, then another. He glanced at Kinch's bunk; then sank upon his stool.

LeBeau looked his question. Newkirk nodded, leaning forward and tightening his hands around his cup.

"He's still our radioman. I got that much for him out of Crittendon."

"Merci Dieu! But how…?"

"Said I didn't know a thing about how it worked. Pretended no one knew but Kinch." Newkirk shrugged. "Well, it's not much of a lie. Kinch is the only one who can make it work without it breaking down." He sighed. "Never thought I'd be glad London's been laggard about sending us a new set."

"Oui." LeBeau turned away and slumped down on his stool, his energy, with his optimism, drained.

Newkirk tried to rally him by saying that Colonel Hogan was probably cooking up a plan with Donovan that would rid the camp of Crittendon.

LeBeau shook his head despondently.

"As you said to André, he cannot stay here with us against orders from the High Command. I do not want mon colonél court-martialed. Neither do you. He must return home to a hero's welcome, and we must bear with Crittendon."

"Well, I'm depending on the colonel's luck, mate." Newkirk leaned closer as LeBeau morosely shook his head again. "Look. He'll think of a way. I know he will. He knows he can't leave the operation and us to Colonel Crumpets and Tea."

At that moment, Colonel Hogan entered the barracks. One glance around the common room told the colonel all, and one glance at Newkirk confirmed it. He expelled his breath in an angry gust. "Well, we expected it would happen, didn't we?"

"I tried to refuse, guv'nor. I told Crittendon how good Kinch was, how we couldn't do without him; but he just wouldn't hear me." Newkirk begged the colonel with his eyes to believe him.

Hogan nodded and squeezed his shoulder. "I know you did. Well, better you than a stranger."

Carter, Simms and Olsen had gathered around the table. Hogan shot a keen glance at the black corporal. Simms returned it with a look that said, "You'll have no trouble from me, Colonel." Hogan smiled, satisfied.

"I did convince him to keep Kinch on as radioman though," Newkirk added.

"Good. Keep together and you'll survive." Hogan motioned the men closer; then slightly raised his voice. "That's the main thing now. Keep together and keep your wits. Be there for each other, no matter what happens, no matter how much the other guy irritates you."

He looked pointedly at Simms and LeBeau. "I know I didn't do you any favours by accepting the lift home; but that's past changing. Agreed?"

"Agreed, sir," said Simms.

"Oui, mon colonél," LeBeau conceded.

"You got it, Colonel." Carter nodded vigorously.

"Right, guv'nor," Newkirk agreed.

"Good." Hogan turned to Newkirk. "Does Kinch know?"

Newkirk shook his head. "Colonel, I don't want the job. I mean, I'll do all I can to help Kinch out, but I don't want the responsibility weighting me down."

Hogan crossed his arms. "I know too well how heavy it is, Newkirk."

"Yes, sir." Newkirk lowered his eyes.

"You know I can't get through Crittendon's ivory skull. He's your commanding officer now. Maybe it's better for everyone that he has you at his side. You're English and you know the score." He gave Newkirk a little grin. "You have your chance to shine now. Better do it."

"Yes, sir; but I don't see how I can."

"Well, maybe now you'll admit Kinch deserved the authority I gave him."

Newkirk slowly nodded. "Yes, sir. I'd gladly give it back to him."

Hogan put his hand on his shoulder. "Go down and break it to him then. He'd rather hear it from you, and perhaps you two can work something out."

Newkirk rose, hesitated. "You don't think he'll have hard feelings, sir?"

"Not toward you. If I know Kinch, he's probably expecting it." He gave Newkirk's shoulder a gentle shove. "Go talk to him. It will be all right."

"Right, sir." Newkirk looked dubious; but Hogan gave him a reassuring nod. "Thank you, sir." He clambered down the ladder, resolved to take his colleague's hard feelings in stride and not pressure him to relinquish more than he could. After all, it was about time he and Kinch shared the burden of managing the operation. It had been hard enough before. Heaven knew it was going to be tons heavier with Crittendon in charge.

Hogan dismissed the men. Then he drew LeBeau into the corner furthest from his former quarters. He seated him on a bunk and crouched in front of him. Keeping his eyes fixed on the corporal's face, he spoke with great care. "LeBeau, when Schultz told me about the party, I was surprised, and very, very grateful; but I didn't want you to fuss over me when I no longer wanted to leave."

LeBeau managed a weak smile. "It is my pleasure to care for you, mon colonél. We knew how much you hated 'fuss'. That is why we kept the party secret from you, so that you would not stop us."

Hogan put his hand on LeBeau's shoulder. "Forgive me, Louis? I did not mean to hurt you."

"Of course I forgive you, mon colonél." LeBeau's smile brightened slightly, but not enough to satisfy Hogan.

"Worried about Kinch?"

LeBeau nodded sadly. "Oui."

The colonel squeezed LeBeau's shoulder. "Crittendon means nothing to Kinch. You mean a great deal. As long as you're there for each other, no one can hurt him or you."

"_Except you, mon colonél; but that is because you mean so much to us."_ LeBeau replied silently. Aloud, he said, "I wish you were staying."

Hogan lowered his eyes, and looked away. "Thanks. I had thought …" He waved his hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter what I thought."

LeBeau touched Hogan's sleeve. "You thought we would prefer another commander to you. You said as much when you said we should decide if Crittendon was bad news or good. Oh, mon Colonél! How could we prefer any other to you?"

Hogan turned and looked into LeBeau's expressive eyes. Again he chided himself for his impulsiveness in leaving this heroic man behind. He put his arm around his corporal's shoulders. "Thanks, Louis. I'm glad you still believe in me."

Kinch looked up from his wireless key as Hogan came into the alcove.

"Just finished transmitting that Colonel Crittendon got here safe and sound, sir."

"'Safe' will do. Don't lie about him being 'sound'." Hogan's smile slipped from his face. "Kinch?"

The radioman looked at him attentively.

For a moment, Hogan's throat dried up. He coughed, forced out the words.

"Kinch, you've never failed me. Have I failed you?"

Kinch shook his head slowly. "No, Colonel. You haven't. I'm the one out of line - blaming you for feeling what I would have felt in your place."

"And for spoiling the surprise party LeBeau had so carefully planned for me."

"Yeah." Kinch forced a lump down his throat. "Louis – we all – it was our gift to you. LeBeau's especially. I felt a little bitter, because he felt hurt." He hung his head. "I'm sorry, Colonel."

"I'm the one to be sorry, Kinch. I didn't want you to give me a party for no reason."

Kinch gently smiled. "Oh, we had reason, Colonel. It suddenly dawned on us too what this command meant. We wanted to thank you."

Hogan looked away from Kinch's deep, dark eyes.

"I did fail you. I realized it the moment I realized what you guys meant to me." He managed a wry smile. "You never thought you'd hear that, did you?" He shook his head. "I never thought I'd say it either. After all we've done together, I dance away to glory and leave you guys in the mire."

"Colonel…" Kinch rose, but Hogan motioned him to resume his seat.

He looked down at the ground between them. "I've done more soul searching today than when I made my first confession. Truth is…" He looked up at him. "You know the rules. An officer isn't allowed to feel sentiment for his men. I never let myself realize what I owe all you guys until today, when I could finally look at you and know that my orders or my plans could no longer kill you. When I did look, it took my breath away how much all of you meant to me. You especially, Kinch. Is there any way to convince Simms that I do appreciate all you've gone through? I don't want his knife in my chest as a going away gift."

Kinch looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about Simms's behaviour, Colonel."

"Don't be. I'm glad someone who walks down the same road you do looks out for you. Marcus Simms has been a good soldier to me and a true friend to you."

Kinch felt overwhelmed. "Colonel, you don't have to confess a thing to me," he muttered, eyes downcast.

Hogan crossed his arms and leaned against the earthen wall. "Yeah. I do. I remember what you said when you accused me of abandoning Newkirk to the Gestapo. You said I should risk our lives for Newkirk because Newkirk would and has laid his life on the line for us."

Kinch hesitated, looked up, and said, "We risked our lives for Carter. I could not understand why you wouldn't for Newkirk."

Hogan cleared his throat. "Perhaps I should have told you sooner about the trap set for us. But do you remember what I did say to you?"

Kinch said slowly. "That you have to make the big decisions. Play percentages. 'Do I risk four men to save three?'"

"And you accepted it, and gave up Newkirk on my orders."

Kinch softly repeated the words he had spoken at the time, "'Whatever the colonel says. It's his war.'" Even now, knowing that Hogan had not intended to abandon Newkirk, his voice still held the bile he had swallowed then. He lowered his eyes to his radio key. "Yeah. I gave him up."

"That's why you're hearing my confession, Kinch. You know too well the pain of putting your duty before the lives of your friends. You also know too well why Donovan calls me 'Reckless Robert'. I've not only been reckless with my own life. I gambled freely with the lives of my crewmen. With your life, Kinch."

Kinch looked up and said quietly, "To win the war, Colonel."

"Yeah. To win the war." Hogan scrutinized his radioman. "And you accept that it _has always been_ to win the war? Not for – well, not for my own career?"

"Of course, Colonel." Kinch kept his eyes fixed on Hogan's. "I've never thought otherwise."

There was no irony, no sarcasm, in those frank eyes. Hogan felt a lump swell in his throat. _"Thanks, Kinch. You truly are my rock and my right arm."_

_But not Crittendon's, damn his bigotry._ "Did Newkirk tell you?"

Kinch nodded. He gestured to the radio. "Least I've still got this, thanks to him."

"You've got a lot more of a burden to carry now. You've got to protect the operation from Crittendon as well as from the Krauts – and without Crittendon suspecting it."

Kinch nodded again. "Right, sir."

"I'll do what I can when I'm in London to get you a better commanding officer; but I'm afraid till then you're stuck with him."

A tiny smile tweaked the sergeant's lips. "I like geraniums, Colonel."

Hogan punched his arm. "That's my Kinch. Don't get addicted to them."

Kinch looked up, said hesitantly, "Colonel…"

"Marlena's on my list; but don't you think returning Crittendon to London should come first?"

"I just want her home safe, sir."

"Don't worry. She's be trading prescriptions with your sister before Christmas."

"Thanks, Colonel. That's all I wanted to hear."

Sighing, Hogan glanced around the radio room. "I'm going to miss this place."

Kinch looked at the earth and boards, at Carter's darkroom and lab, at his radio. "It's just a tunnel."

Hogan looked at his radioman and, he knew with an aching heart, his friend. "No, Kinch. It's more than just a tunnel."


	6. Meanwhile, In Barracks Two

"Why can't we be the ones who spring you?" Carter asked plaintively.

"Because you've got to be tucked up in your bunks like good little POWs when the train blows up tomorrow night," Exasperated, Hogan bit his tongue and began to explain, for what seemed the hundred and eleventh time, why he wanted to be rescued by strangers.

Of course, his men expected to be involved in it. Of course, he vetoed that at once. He wanted nothing to go wrong with the sabotage mission and he wanted nothing to go wrong with his escape. Both possibilities were more than probable with Crittendon nearby.

He had to be sprung near wherever Klink was transferring him; therefore, it had to be done by the resistance fighters in that area. But trying to convince the men of that was like trying to convince Schultz that strudel was a poisonous substance.

"It's much too risky for you guys, " he argued. "Blowing up the Berlin Express will draw more than enough Gestapo attention here. Add my escape to that, and Hochstetter will smell a connection." He turned away from them, rubbing the back of his stiff neck, and fought his strong desire to pace the barracks. "It can't be done here; and it can't be done by you." His voice sounded hoarse and strained. With an effort, he regained his air of command and turned back to them. "I want Klink to see you in barracks, sleeping like innocent children, when the train and the Kessling plant blow, and I want all of you in some goon's sight from the moment I leave here to … well, to the moment it's known I'm gone."

Newkirk squashed out his cigarette butt on the scarred wooden table and glared down at his cold coffee. It wasn't that he did not trust those blokes, but Colonel Hogan was _their _colonel. _They_ should be responsible for his safety, not some Kraut underground.

He cleared his throat. "Begging your pardon, Colonel, but Wee Widdle Wolfie will still tear the camp apart. If the underground's concerned enough to free you, he'll know he was right about you all along."

"Well, he'll be too late to do anything about that, won't he?" Hogan casually slid his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, stifling the urge to ball them into impotent fists. The truth in Newkirk's words hit him a blow to the gut. The moment Hochstetter learned of his escape, the demented little Gestapo sadist would take it out on his men, hard, because they were his men.

Moaning about it would not help them. He had to boost their spirits, make them believe they would survive and win on their own. It was all he could do for them now.

He looked around the ring of anxious faces and smiled his assurance. "He'll suspect me; but he'll never be sure of you. I know you'll take care of that."

"You've always been with us when we have, sir," Carter replied with a quaver in his voice.

"_You've_ always been with _me_." Hogan gently corrected him. He summoned up all his persuasive skill. "You'll do it, Carter. I know you'll do it. With or without me, you'll come though okay."

Carter looked doubtful, but Newkirk managed to smile back. "Right, guv'." Then he added, softly, "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome," Hogan replied, just as softly. Then in slightly louder, bracing tones: "Don't look so glum, fellas. It will work out fine."

LeBeau could not help but snort. "With Crittendon?"

"I'll get you a decent commanding officer, if I have to kidnap one. Just hold together till he comes."

"And how long will that take?" LeBeau grumbled, but low. He did not want le colonél to be annoyed; but he wanted him to know he was not satisfied.

"Company's coming!" Olsen shut the outer door and moved hastily to his bunk.

Hogan straightened. "This is it, fellas." He gave each man a quick, meaningful glance, trying to convey his trust in them, and his gratitude to them, one last time. He felt his heart stab him again. They were the best, and they would suffer for his sake. How could he leave them to Crittendon? How could he leave them at all?

The door flew open. Klink strutted inside, an armed guard at either shoulder.

Hogan motioned the men to attention. He glanced at Crittendon, almost hidden by Schultz's titanic tonnage. Crittendon's eyes slid away from him and fixed to the back of Klink's head. Hogan saw him nervously nibble on his moustache.

"_Oh, oh. How'd you foul up this time?" _He repressed an exasperated sigh and turned to goad the Kommandant. Klink's smile irritated him. He'd rather have a sour Klink than a sunny Klink around him any day. _"Steady, boy. You won't have to look at his puss much longer."_

"Have a nice brisk stroll around the compound, sir? Your cheeks look less pasty than usual."

Klink swaggered up so close that his monocle nearly touched the American's nose. His smile turned acidly sweet. "So you thought you could cut short your stay at my little resort hotel, just because I gave Colonel Crittendon your private room and you now have to bunk with the men. Uh. Uh. We can't have that," Klink wagged a finger so close to Hogan's face that he was sorely tempted to bite it. "No, No. We can't have our guests dissatisfied, can we, Schultz?"

Schultz, jolted out of his doze by the alarming thought that the Kommandant had asked for his opinion, began to stammer.

Klink did not wait for his reply. "My dear Colonel Hogan," he cooed. "If you insist on your privacy, I have just the accommodations you'll enjoy. Nothing to do all day. Meals delivered to your door. A location so exclusive that you won't see another prisoner for at least thirty days. And the security…" He kissed his fingertips. "Not even your president is so well guarded."

Klink chortled as he saw Hogan's jaw clench and his cheeks flush. He made slicing motions close to Hogan's face. "Chop, chop, chop."

Hogan refused to flinch. "What about the view?" he asked coolly. "I was hoping for a change of scenery – say, the Manhattan skyline?" He shrugged, as Klink appeared taken aback. "I'm not fussy. Berlin blazing through my window would suit me just as well."

The Kommandant recovered his poise. "Oh, I'm afraid the accommodations do not include windows, although there is a charming watermark on the north wall that seems to fascinate our long term guests."

"I've seen it. Hardly rates a star in the Michelin guide. What about entertainment?" Hogan smiled wolfishly. "Dorothy Lamour in her sarong…or out of her sarong…hmm? I would not complain if it was at the cleaners. I've got my love to keep her warm."

"You are the one who is going to the cleaners, Hogan my friend, or rather, to the cooler." Klink lilted. He motioned the guards to step forward. "Escort Colonel Hogan to his cell. Make sure he has the full V.I.P. treatment: bread, water, his own personal lice."

"That's not V.I.P. treatment!" Carter spluttered before Kinch's hand muffled his mouth.

Klink's toothy smile broadened. "Oh, but it is, Carter. It's what Stalag Thirteen gives to all Very Impertinent Prisoners. I'd offer it to you too, but Colonel Hogan is an officer, so he gets priority treatment. He wishes to be alone and undisturbed for the next thirty days. I'm sure you respect his wishes, don't you?"

Carter felt fifteen pairs of eyes – Hogan's, his barrack mates' and Schultz's – glare him into silence. The guards looked woodenly at the Kommandant. Crittendon seemed to be contemplating a new colour scheme for the walls and a re-arrangement of the bunks. No help from him. Abashed, Carter shrank back against Kinch. He scarcely felt his friend's firm hand move from his mouth to squeeze his shoulder. All he felt was miserable.

Klink, still smirking, extended his hand to the door. "Shall we go, Hogan?"

"Just a minute. I haven't finished my lecture to Newkirk." Hogan looked hard at the Englishman. "Now, listen, Corporal. I've had it with your sloppy appearance. Remember the keys to good health: cleanliness, orderliness and sobriety."

Newkirk bobbed his head under the rebuke. "Right, sir. I'll remember."

"No, I don't think you will," Hogan said in his severest tones. "You're always coming to meals with unwashed hands. And look at your hair! Mussed and greasy. It's a bird's nest."

He turned to Klink, who was pursing his lips and tut-tuting. "Kommandant, I can't let Colonel Crittendon be embarrassed by one of his own. Allow Corporal Newkirk to walk me to my cell, so that I can make him look somewhat presentable." Nodding toward Carter, Hogan whispered in Klink's ear, "I can't scold him about some of his bad habits in front of the others."

Klink attempted to look wise. "Oh, very well, Hogan; but you should have instructed your men in personal hygiene long ago."

Hogan hung his head. "I'm aware of that, sir; and I am heartily ashamed of it. But let me rectify my error with Newkirk. It isn't right for Colonel Crittendon to reprove him on his first day in command."

Klink lapped it up. He never had felt such joy since he was made Kommandant of the Year. "Certainly. Certainly. Certainly." He turned away, waving his crop distractedly to stop Hogan's flow of obsequious thanks.

Hogan winked at Kinch. _"How's that for playing 'Steppin Fetchit'?"_

Kinch cocked an eyebrow. _"Not bad for a white boy, Colonel, but you need more practice eating humble pie."_

The colonel gave the sergeant a mock frown, but his eyes twinkled. _"Just see to things and give Doktor Pacifist my love."_ Grasping Newkirk's sleeve, Hogan motioned his guards to follow and sailed out, head high, in Klink's wake.

Crittendon, ever the conscientious senior officer, hastened after them. After all, Hogan needed his help to devise 'Plan B'.

Carter turned to Kinch and LeBeau the moment the door closed. "Newkirk always washes his hands before he eats."

LeBeau shrugged. "How can you tell? He is always eating."

Olsen swung a leg over Hogan's stool and plopped down on it. "Well, all the Colonel got was the cooler, not a transfer out." He looked up at Kinch. "What do we do now?"

Kinch ignored him, turning to Carter. "The Colonel wanted Newkirk along so he can steal the key to his cell from Schultz."

Carter thought it through. "I suppose that does make sense."

"Glad you agree." Kinch replied drily. He beckoned the men to close around him. "Now, we don't know what the Colonel will do with that key; but let's be prepared for when. Meanwhile, we've a train to catch." He looked up at Carter. "Got your stuff ready?"

The tech sergeant nodded. "Real beauties! They'll blow up the train so high that … well, they'll blow it up real high."

"Good. We'll go out right after curfew. LeBeau, finish baking that chocolate cake. We'll need to tempt Schultz with a very delicious bribe."

Both men looked puzzled. "Why?" Carter ventured.

"You weren't listening too well when the Colonel outlined this earlier, were you?" Kinch said with forced patience. "Well, listen now. We've got to keep Crittendon away from what we're doing tonight. The Berlin Express carrying all that ammunition and passing by the refinery is a 'once in a blue moon opportunity' to kill two birds with one blast. We can't let him foul it up."

He looked around the ring of intent faces. "Crittendon's a stickler for correct protocol, right?"

The men nodded as one.

"Group Captain Donovan's next ranking officer, right?"

They nodded again.

"Donovan's got to meet Crittendon, but he's laid up in his quarters with a broken leg, right?" He paused. "If the mountain can't come to Mohammed…"

Olsen chortled. "Mohammed must go to Barracks Eleven."

Kinch nodded. "And if the group-captain has the makings of a nightcap, Mohammed will stay there awhile."

One of the prisoners spoke up. "But Crittendon looks like a 'scotch and soda' man. Donovan's Guinness and Irish whisky."

"Big Michael can drink any man under the table with any liquid except gasoline," Olsen replied, laughing. "And I wouldn't be too surprised if Irish poteen isn't stronger than gas."

"We have every drink he'll need in our cellars," said LeBeau. He raised his hands at the howls of protest. "It is le Colonél Hogan's private stock, not for the likes of you."

"Maybe we ought to taste them first," Olsen teased. "Make sure they haven't turned sour."

LeBeau drew himself haughtily erect at this insult to his stewardship. "What do you know about fine wines - you who guzzle Coca-Cola like a pig?"

"Hey!" Carter jumped to his feet. "The Colonel likes Coke too!"

LeBeau snorted. "Pah! Mon Colonél has the palate of a Frenchman. He would not permit himself to sip such a revolting beverage."

"Then he's a Pepsi-Cola guy," Olsen snickered.

Kinch raised his hands to quell the incipient quarrel. "Let's stick to the point. We've got what it takes to keep Crittendon from messing up the mission, and the colonel will want us to use it. Since you're the self proclaimed wine expert, Olsen, you can help Carter and me carry a nice selection to Donovan while LeBeau bakes his cake." He gave the scowling men his 'command' look. "And no tasting on the way. The stuff goes down Crittendon's throat, not yours."

Olsen crossed his arms and threw the staff sergeant his hardest glare.

"Maybe the group-captain will let you have what's left over," Carter said, anxious to keep things calm.

"He'll need it for the next night, and the next, and the next," Olsen groused. "If we're going to survive until Colonel Hogan gets us a decent C.O., Crittendon's got to be kept dead drunk all the time."

"Yeah." Kinch rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose that's what he's got to be."

"So that's what we've got to use to do it," he said to Carter later, in the latter's laboratory.

Carter nodded vigorously, unlocking his box of dangerous drugs. He poked through the contents, then handed the black sergeant a small bottle. "It's a good thing we got this via airdrop from London. I don't think Doktor Falke keeps chloral hydrate."

Kinch had to smile. "I don't think she'd give us a sample if she did."

Carter looked apprehensive. "It doesn't seem right, knocking out an officer on our side."

Kinch eyed the contents of the bottle. "I'd prefer it if he passed out on the group-captain's whisky; but a little insurance doesn't hurt." He sighed wistfully. "We can't use this all the time, or we might kill him."

"No. I guess we can't," Carter agreed. "I wish we could send Colonel Crittendon home, and keep Colonel Hogan." He eagerly grabbed Kinch's arm. "What if we drugged Colonel Crittendon, and, when he's asleep, we put him in Colonel Hogan's uniform, and shave off his moustache, and put him in the trunk of Klink's car and take him to the sub? Everyone there will think he was Colonel Hogan, and they'll take him back to England."

"And when he comes to and tells them he isn't?"

"It'll be too late then." Carter waited expectantly, watching his comrade bite his lower lip. "Well? Don't you think it'll work?"

Kinch bent his dark eyes on the excited young man. "How do we explain Crittendon's no show to Klink? Or Colonel Hogan wearing Crittendon's uniform? Besides, do you see our colonel willingly giving up his leather jacket, even for the cause?"

Carter's face fell. "No. I don't."

"Good try, though." Kinch wrapped a consoling arm around Carter's hunched shoulders. "At least you thought of something. That's more than I've done."

"There must be a way to keep him with us." Carter implored.

Kinch looked away, and sighed. His arm slipped from Carter's shoulders. "I know. I know. I keep telling myself it's for the best, but I don't believe it." His lips twisted into a half-smile. "Maybe your plan's worth another think through. It would get us court-martialed and shot, but it would rid us of Crittendon and keep the Colonel with us a little longer."

He watched Carter lock up his cabinet, then handed back the bottle. "Run this up to the group-captain now, while Newkirk's still got his eye on Crittendon. I've got to watch the switchboard. With any luck, Colonel Hogan's key stunt should panic Klink into arranging his transfer. We have to know what lucky Stalag gets him, so we can arrange he doesn't get there."

_At Evening Roll-Call:_

Crittendon ran his eye over the motley crew of POW's. They did not look in fine fettle. No, not in good shape at all. Hogan was too lax with them.

He inhaled the crisp air deeply, puffing out his chest. _Callisthenics in the open air. Just what's needed to perk up their spirits and show Jerry the British are still a force to be reckoned with. Maybe the French and the Yanks are too – not like us of course, poor souls – but who would believe it from the little French frog's hang dog monkey face. What was his name? LeBeau? Funny sort of name for him – 'the Handsome'. Doesn't suit him at all._

_And the Negro bruiser – Kinchloe. Never heard such a name as that. Don't know what Hogan saw in him. Doesn't look smart enough to be in charge of himself, let alone a vital operation. I'm sure Newkirk must have saved the day countless times – mongrel type that he is, he is English. I confess I'm rather disappointed in him though. Jolly brave of him to stand up to me for his friend but if he was one of the better sort, he would have better friends. _

_Salt of the earth though, those 'Tommies'. We don't need to have our officers shot when we can send in men like Newkirk._

Crittendon regarded the last man of Hogan's crew beneath his frowning brows. _Young Carter. Good man. Loyal. Enthusiastic, especially about explosives. A nit-wit, though. Imagining secret papers tasted better cooked. Looked mulish over my demoting his friend Kinchloe; but after all, they are both American. _With a harrumph, Crittendon straightened his posture to ramrod stiffness as Schultz jabbed his forefinger at him and muttered 'Eins'. _But he should not rebuke an officer, even by looks. I'll let that insubordinate behaviour go this time, but Hogan's been too soft on him. Too soft on the lot of them._

LeBeau noted Crittendon's sour expression. _I am certain the imbecile does not even appreciate French cuisine, let alone French valour,_ LeBeau muttered sotto voce.

Schultz blinked, thrown off his count. "Did you say something, Cockroach?"

"Just translating your counting into a civilized language, Schultzie."

Schultz blinked again, at the bitter edge in LeBeau's voice. "Oh. Why?"

"Because I do not like 'Eins. Zwei. Drei.' I am not a 'Zwei'. I am a 'Deux'."

"No, you're not!" Newkirk poked his ribs. "You're a 'One and a 'Aff'!" He turned to the men in the row behind. "Ain't he, mates?"

A chorus of laughter and insults followed: some directed at Newkirk, some at LeBeau, some at Schultz. Even the dour Simms cracked a smile. It died into a hard frown as he looked across Carter to Kinch. His friend was not participating in the chaffing but was staring across the compound, arms crossed over his chest, gnawing at his lower lip.

Carter caught Simms' change of expression and anxiously turned to his right. Schultz's muttered 'Jolly joker' seemed to have struck a chord in Kinch, for the black sergeant turned briefly to the commotion with something like agreement in his eyes before resuming his brood. Carter turned back to Simms, his own expression deeply troubled. They could read their friend's mind from his face. _How am I to mind the store without Crittendon catching on? How am I to keep these ' jokers' alive and the operation running? _

The two men exchanged anxious glances. They both knew that Newkirk was just letting off his steam by baiting LeBeau and Schultz. LeBeau knew it too. If he had been truly insulted, he would have lunged for Newkirk's throat, not shouted back at him. They knew that Kinch knew Newkirk was 'just being Newkirk'. In other circumstances, when Colonel Hogan allowed the horseplay, he would join in heartily. Why not now? They had their ups and downs, but, aside from themselves and LeBeau, and Donovan, and of course, Colonel Hogan, Kinch trusted no man more than he did Newkirk. He'd back up Newkirk in whatever it was Newkirk was attempting; but he wasn't doing it now. Being demoted had really done a number on Kinch.

Simms saw Carter's face working with the effort of seeking a word of comfort for their friend. He nudged him and sadly shook his head. "_Don't offer it now. Wait till he can bear it."_

Schultz, unable to stem the increasing noise, turned beseeching eyes to Kinch. Newkirk paused, his face half-turned, expectant. Then he shouted all the louder, laughed all the harder, encouraging those around him to do likewise.

Carter realized what Newkirk was trying to do. If Crittendon saw Schultz, the sergeant of the goons, appeal to Kinch to control the men, then he'll see even the enemy respects Kinch, so he should too. And Newkirk will stop clowning on Kinch's first word. So will the other guys. Surely then it would get through Crittendon's skull that Kinch, not Newkirk, was the guy who should be in charge of managing the operation.

Kinch gave Newkirk a measuring glance. His mouth rose at the corners as he gave Newkirk a infinitesimally small shake of the head, then nodded slightly toward Crittendon. _"Thanks, old buddy; but it's not my place anymore."_

"_Oh, isn't it though? _Newkirk rolled his eyes at him. _"Fine. If you won't step in, I'm certainly not going to stop what I've started." _

Seeing Klink appear at the doorway of his office, the Briton started making cawing noises. "'Ello. 'Ello. 'Ello. Wot got loose from its cage at the zoo? I do believe it's the famous Hairless Three Eyed Whooping Goose of Hammelburg!"

The laughter was so loud that the guards in the towers flanking the main gate swivelled their machine guns toward them.

Kinch gripped Carter's wrist as a warning to remain silent, but he made no move to silence the other men. If Newkirk still wanted to play the clown, Newkirk knew what he'd get. _Maybe he thinks if he's thrown in the cooler, Crittendon would be forced to put up with me. But Carter can't go with him. Not when we need him for the job tonight._

Klink's pale face flushed darkly. "Silence in ranks!" he shouted.

The men ignored him. He strutted over to Crittendon, who was standing at stiff attention. "Why don't you control your men, sir?"

Crittendon saluted and permitted himself a smile. "Far be it for me to discourage their distain for the enemy, Kommandant Klink."

The men exchanged incredulous glances. Then they broke out in cheers that drowned out the guards' repeated 'Achtung!'

Klink's mouth gaped open, unable to believe his pet prisoner had insulted him to his face. He swallowed several times, spluttered out a 'Disss-missed', then scuttled back to his quarters.

Kinch chuckled low. "You know, Andrew? I might learn to like Crittendon after all."


	7. Meanwhile, Outside the Refinery

Sergeant Kinchloe, pistol clenched tight in his fist, crouched low and peered beyond the barbed wire enclosing the Kessling Oil Refinery.

He saw the loading platform, and the drums arranged on skids or pyramid fashion within frames. He saw the dim outlines of holding tanks, the shadowy silhouettes of buildings and pipelines. Then he saw movement just behind the fence.

He froze. The two men squatting at his heels froze as well. So did the small man further to his left, and the man behind them. They watched two guards, machine guns negligently slung at their waists, approach, meet and cross each other.

"About as exciting as watching the bleedin' goons pass each other back at camp," a Cockney voice griped.

His fingers twitched, but Kinch restrained the urge to stuff Newkirk's black toque into his mouth. He scanned the tracks for patrolling railway guards. First left, then right. The brush and weeds had not been trimmed back the regulation distance from the track. That disturbed him. _It's adequate cover for us, but any guard smaller than an elephant could also lurk there._ He felt Carter tug on his sleeve, saw him point to a row of oil cars along a rail siding, and nodded agreement. _"Yeah, they cut off those goons' line of sight, and they're in just the right place for your fireworks to do good."_

His brows came together in a frown. The thick, tall weeds also prevented a clear view into the compound and into the woods west of the fence. _So do those oil cars._ He felt his skin prickle. Those cars and drums are sitting right there, probably full of fuel, and the Berlin Express full of shells and ammo, passing so close tomorrow night. _What if this is all bait? It's a honey of a trap. Stupid though he is, I wouldn't put it past Hochstetter to set it for Papa Bear._

His hand trembled slightly on his binoculars. _Go ahead, or play it safe and scrub the mission?_ He wished Colonel Hogan were here to make that decision for him. Still, he knew what it would be.

He kept his face impassive. He had to project confidence, especially now that Hogan was no longer leading them. Carter in particular needed to believe. He glanced at his young comrade-in-arms. He looked alert and eager, quivering like a greyhound scenting a rabbit. All his fears and self-doubts seemed to have dissolved.

_I wish I could say that,_ Kinch thought. He angrily scolded himself. This mission was crucial, and he was in charge. It was for the last time, but he was still 'in charge'.

He scented the men's expectancy. Carter's glow of anticipation. LeBeau's determined jaw. They were waiting for his signal. Newkirk turned to face him. Was there a challenge in his eyes?

_How had the colonel made these missions look like a walk in the park?_ Kinch drew in a breath. Hogan had not doubted him. He must not doubt himself. Not here and not now. He had to stay alert, stay focused, stay in control. Doubts and heartaches were for later.

He made a slight gesture. A whippet of a man, black upon black, rose from behind him and slipped into the brush.

Kinch stifled his anxiety. Marcus knew what he was doing. _But, like me, he hasn't done it often enough._

Touching LeBeau's arm, he passed him his binoculars. "Can you get beneath those cars?" he whispered.

The little man held the binoculars to his eyes and focused. There was a minute of silence before he passed them back to Kinch. "Oui. No trouble."

Beside him, Newkirk squinted. "It's a right narrow squeeze. I don't fancy it."

LeBeau smiled a smug little smile and repeated firmly, "No trouble."

"Barmy little froggy, you are," Newkirk mumbled, yet lightly laid a palm on LeBeau's back. He grasped the sleeve of Carter's black jersey. "Ready for the off?"

The young man squirmed with enthusiasm. "Just say the word."

His three companions exchanged anxious, exasperated glances. The successful saboteur planted explosives swiftly and silently; but Carter was as unrestrained as a small child ripping the wrappings off his birthday gifts.

"Wait for it, then. Don't jump the gun." Kinch immediately regretted saying that.

Marcus Simms, returning as noiselessly as he had left, squatted behind them. "Both sides clear to three hundred yards west of the fence."

"Hope it's just as clear to the east," Newkirk grumbled. Simms shot him a daggered look.

Kinch touched his compatriot's wrist and gave him a stern, yet commiserating, grimace. "It's still a blind spot, Marcus." The corporal sighed, nodded, and again stole away.

The men waited for Simms to take his position – Carter restlessly, the others anxiously – scanning the area again while mentally counting the seconds. Newkirk held his watch to his ear, certain it had stopped. Then a light flashed beyond his shoulder. Two seconds later, it flashed again, twice.

Relieved, Kinch flashed his own light once in acknowledgement of the 'all clear'. Then he inhaled deeply, and nodded to LeBeau. The lithe little man took the haversack Carter held out to him and hastened forward.

Newkirk clutched his automatic tight, flicking his eyes to either side of LeBeau. _Not much fun doing this without the colonel here._ Not as secure a feeling, either. _One thing about the guv'nor: no such word as 'can't' in his dictionary. Amazing how he could make you feel invincible._ A pang shot through Newkirk's chest that he would never be leading them again.

_Damn Crittendon and his 'Buy British' nonsense! _He couldn't do Kinch's job. He could con men, pick their pockets and rob their homes while they sat smiling and unaware; but he couldn't motivate them like Colonel Hogan could, he couldn't quickly set them to task and get the best out of them like Kinch could. He couldn't plan creatively, and he couldn't support Crittendon's plans because he didn't believe they'd work. _No matter how crazy Hogan's schemes seemed, we went along – usually because it was the only scheme we had, but always because we believed in him._

Newkirk knew he could wriggle out of a bad situation, or turn it to his own advantage like Colonel Hogan could; but he couldn't prevent it from being desperate, or think how to get others through it, or how to use it for their good. He was a loner, not a leader. But, after tonight, he'd have to be one, just because he was an Englishman and Crittendon expected it of him.

He watched LeBeau cross one track, then the second, then the third, then drop and roll beneath the middle oil car. He felt Carter's outdrawn breath brush his ear, just as he released his own.

He saw Kinch scan their surroundings again. _How can he look so calm? My heart's ready to jump through my chest._

_No flash from Simms. Hope that means all's well._ He was getting the willies. _Of course all's well. Silent Simms can make any Kraut who catches him scream._ He looked back at Kinch, saw him give the nod.

_Piece of cake_, he assured himself, gripping the haversack with one hand and Carter's arm with the other.

They ran and dropped upon the westbound track. Carter set the first timer and attached it to the explosive 'package' while Newkirk burrowed a shallow hole under one rail.

Carter passed over the bundle. "Gently!" he warned. He began to explain but Newkirk cut him off. "I know why!"

Kinch stole swift glances at his friends while watching the railway track, the woods, and the fence of the refinery. He could just make out their movements. Carter seemed intent on wiring and setting his demolition packs. No nervousness, no hesitation. Swift and sure. _Crittendon's being our new C.O. is good for him at least. His fear's gone. Wish mine would go away._

He looked toward Simms. Even though he could not see him, he felt the knot in his chest loosen. He was grateful for the extra pair of sharp eyes, and for the sharp mind residing behind them.

He resisted the urge to close his own eyes and rub his aching temples. He knew his 'bro' was watching him as anxiously as he was watching for the Krauts.

He clenched his hands on his binoculars and his gun. He must not move. He did not want Carter distracted. He had to concentrate on this mission, but Colonel Hogan's leaving and Crittendon's taking over command kept playing tag in his brain.

He recalled his mood of the morning – how bitterly he had blamed Hogan for taking him for granted. Now that Crittendon had taken over command and dismissed him from his office, he was beginning to realize he had taken Hogan for granted. It was not just that missions like this one were invariably successful when Hogan was in command. It was that most white officers would have never considered giving a black man the power and responsibility Colonel Hogan had given him. Crittendon certainly did not. Hogan had made him his right hand – on par with Donovan, his near equal in rank – and had put his trust in him.

He had not abused that trust. Even when he thought the colonel had betrayed his trust in him by refusing to rescue Newkirk, even when he had burned with hate, he had remained faithful. Hogan had not only justified that faithfulness; Kinch realized now that the colonel had relied on it when setting his trap for the Gestapo agent. _"You've never failed me, Kinch."_ That acknowledgement uplifted his heart.

He knew he was a capable man. He desired to be treated as one. Yet, without Colonel Hogan's backing, what was he? Another American P.O.W. Another face in the compound, albeit a dark one. Less than nothing to the white, English, Crittendon.

What did that matter? He still had Carter's esteem and Simms' and LeBeau's sincere friendship. He still had Donovan's warm regard. Newkirk had gone to bat for him – had salvaged for him that part of his job he loved most. The radio was his reason for being – his contribution to the fight and his lifeline to the free world and ultimately to the people he fought for. Newkirk teased him a little venomously about his jealous hold on it because, of course, _he_ wanted to be the one who connected them to London. Kinch understood and sympathized. Though Newkirk would never admit such a weakness, he missed his homeland and he was anxious about his sister Mavis. Hearing an Englishwoman's voice, or her touch on the key, brought Newkirk a little closer to all that mattered to him, made every trial here a little easier to bear. Yet, despite his longing, Newkirk had insisted that he, Kinchloe, remain the radioman.

With a confusing mixture of gratitude, affection, speculation and unease, the American watched his English colleague half assist, half guide Carter through setting the explosives. Could Newkirk succeed as Acting Sergeant Major in camp and Operations Manager in the tunnel? Newkirk had admitted to him that he dreaded taking on those roles. Kinch admitted to himself that he dreaded giving them up to him.

Would their 'The Devil may care – I don't' Joker carry the load, collapse beneath it, or cut for home?

Kinch angrily reproached himself. _Newkirk's shouldered burdens just as heavy as mine. We've always counted on him and he's never let us down. Why do I doubt him now? Because I've carried those particular loads on my own for so long? Because I resent Crittendon giving him the power and respect I've enjoyed? Because I don't want to let go?_

He must not ponder it now. Later. When they were safely back in barracks. He would mull it through then.

LeBeau rolled out from under the third oil car, his haversack empty of explosives. Crouching, he made his way to Carter's side and began digging under the opposite rail.

He glanced in Kinch's direction and nodded. His explosives were in place.

It was good that they had brought the extras. If shock waves from the exploding train did not explode and ignite the fuel tanks in the refinery, the explosions of the oil cars would. LeBeau felt a warm glow of satisfaction at that. It was all very well to work to another's recipes; but he preferred to embellish them with his own sauces and garnishes. He wanted his 'signature' on the work, at least to salve his pride. It was the artiste in him.

Newkirk carefully repacked as much soil as he could around each demolition pack, hastily spreading the rest over the ground between the ties. There were four demolition packs to set beneath each rail, two boxcar lengths apart. Kinch had calculated that, assuming the Underground had correctly timed its average rate of speed at this point, and that it left the Bahnhof on time (and the Krauts were so puffed over their efficiency that they'd even shout at Himmler if he delayed a train's schedule), the middle of the train should be over them by 2030_. Bloody war! When'll the time be eight thirty pip emma for me again?_ he groused as he started burrowing the next hole.

He saw the flash, heard Kinch hiss a warning. The men froze, praying that the weeds would screen them from view. The guards met, paused to exchange a few gruff words, then passed on. Newkirk exhaled, _That was close! _ then signaled 'all clear'.

Two more rounds passed before LeBeau nudged Carter's leg. They drew back into the woods, paired off and slipped away: Kinch and Simms with LeBeau, Newkirk with Carter. They did not speak until they met at their prearranged spot, the truck they had parked in a barn a mile from the tracks and the refinery.

"All set?"

"Yeah. It'll be a doozy when it blows." Carter grinned in anticipation.

"Colonel Hogan will get our best send off, mate. No fear of that."

"Good." Kinch clapped them on the shoulders. "Get back to camp and be careful about the patrols. I've got to tell Doktor Falke what she'll be up against."

Carter looked bewildered. "But I thought you already told her the colonel was leaving."

"We didn't know about Crittendon then. All she knows is that the colonel's going home to a hero's welcome." Kinch raised his eyes. "Now that the shock's worn off, I dread to hear what she thinks of that."

Newkirk gave Carter a slight push. "I'll explain it all to you. Just get going." He put his hand on the black sergeant's shoulder. "I have to put His Nibs to bed after his carouse with Donovan, and both of them'll be high as kites. You still pulled the easier duty, Kinch. Enjoy it while you can."


	8. Meanwhile, Here and There

Hogan twisted onto his back and looked up at the crack in the ceiling. He was too excited to sleep. No. Too worked up.

_"Don't look back. Don't look back. Look ahead." _

But the future looked like an empty shell; the hero's welcome like tinfoil winking in the sunlight and rattling in the wind.

What he had here, what he was giving up. That was substantial.

Feeling Kinch's strong shoulder under his hand. Feeling Donovan's strong grip on his own.

Smelling and tasting LeBeau's meals. Seeing his proud glow when they're appreciated.

Noticing Newkirk palm a card from the deck -- and outwitting him.

Outwitting Klink and Burkhalter and especially Hochstetter. Blowing up the ammo dumps. Blowing down Hitler's Reich.

Hearing Carter's rambling, inane conversation. "There will never be another Colonel Hogan. No, Sir! Unless of course you got married and had sons and one of them went into the service ... "

_"I can't take that a decent, devoted, shy young man tries to tell me how much I mean to him?"_

"I don't deserve you, Carter. And you don't deserve a colonel who shouts you down when you're trying to say what you feel. One whose guilty conscience shouts at him for leaving you in the lurch."

Hogan squeezed his eyes shut and twisted onto his side.

"Don't look back. You decided to go home to your hero's welcome. You've got to live with it."

That's what he had to do: Live with it.

"I'll get Marlena home. I'll get them home, or get them a better commanding officer. Persuade them to appoint Mike. Whatever he did in the past, he's fighting for England now."

He saw his men's faces. Saw Crittendon's smug, silly face rise over theirs. "I'll make it up to them. I swear I'll make it up to them."

* * *

Donovan blinked at Crittendon. Never before had he seen an Englishman drink so much and still stay upright. 

He surreptitiously glanced at his watch as he passed the bottle to him. _They won't be back yet. But soon, please God. "Please, God. Soon, or I'll be too drunk to know what I'm doing."_

At least he was making progress getting Crittendon drunk and keeping him out of Barracks Two, so he doesn't know his boys left without him to go blowing up trains. When Crittendon had entered Donovan's quarters, he had looked like a figure on a recruiting poster. Bathed. Shaved. Tie straight. Cap at the right angle. Clean, pressed, and shiny. Now his cap was on the floor, his hair mussed, his tie and shirt collar loosened, his face flushed and his moustache flecked with whiskey drops.

Donovan repressed a smile and wished that Newkirk were here. The poor lad would have got some satisfaction out of the sight of his new commander, after his new commander's command that he be cleaned, trimmed and spruced up. Not an easy thing to accomplish when his commander had burned every stitch of his clothing, setting fire to the laundry hamper. Donovan had spotted the Canadian tie, Aussie trousers, American shirt (Carter's, probably.) and his aide Burkitt's tunic and cap. As Burkitt was broader than Newkirk, it was an ill fit.

"And his manners. In the three years I've known Newkirk, I've seen him stand to attention maybe a dozen times. Now, today, he's beat his own record."

"But enough of that," Donovan thought, surveying Crittendon's condition. "I've work to do and answers to find."

"So, Sir," he said. "I've seen by Newkirk that you're already taking the men in hand."

Crittendon burped, beamed and nodded sagely. "Yessir, I have - and not a moment too soon. Hogan's let them get sloopy ... er, sloppy. Yessir. Sloppy."

He waggled a finger near Donovan's nose. "I'm surprised, Sir. Surprised and grieved. That you let him do it, Sir."

Donovan bit his lips, trying to keep a straight face. When Newkirk ... . Donovan bit his lips harder at the memory. The poor Sassanach had looked so distressed at coming to attention before him. When Newkirk had announced Crittendon, what did the foolish man do upon entering but go ramrod straight stamp his feet and salute him. Salute me! And now he was calling me 'Sir'.

Well that was Crittendon: all mixed up without the sense to know it.

"Colonel Hogan outranked me, Group-Captain. Just as you do, Sir. And slackening his discipline was not a bad move of his, when you consider the men are demoralized at being in enemy hands."

Crittendon roused himself. "All the more reason, Sir, to keep them tough and alert. Calisthenics and cleanliness. Clipped hair and nails, a clean uniform and polished shoes means that the man inside is still proud of himself and is not letting down the side."

"Colonel Hogan hasn't been 'letting down the side', Sir. I admit that the men are not polished; but they are clean and they keep fit." He paused. "You've seen Sergeant Kinchloe, sir. Have you seen a man more fit?"

"Kinchloe?" Crittendon squinted, making an effort to think. "Kinchloe? Oh, Hogan's blackamoor." He dismissed him with a wave and slurped his drink.

Donovan took a breath, hesitated, then plunged. "Why did you give his place to Newkirk, Sir? Newkirk's a fine man, but Kinchloe is better for the task."

Crittendon looked truculent. "Are you criticising me? Is my command now."

"Indeed it is. But if I may advise you, Sir, you should sweep your new broom carefully at the start. Colonel Hogan put Sergeant Kinchloe at his right hand for good reasons. You should know what those reasons are before you make changes in your staff."

He leaned forward. "For one thing, Kinchloe knows how to deal with men. When to be stern. When to use tact. Newkirk is a 'lone wolf'. He knows how to cajole to get what he wants; but he is not tactful. He steps on toes. He is easily miffed. And he is an artful cheat and pickpocket. Many of the men have been his victims."

"Newkerr's English. Kinshloe is a nigra."

"And Hogan has used that to win over the men. There are some biased against Kinchloe's race; but most see Kinchloe's standing shows the Senior Officer is accepting of them." Donovan tried to hold Crittendon's eyes. "Group-Captain, we have men here from all backgrounds and nationalities. The one thing we officers cannot be is bigoted."

Crittendon looked at him, then shook his head. "Want an Englishman. Too many 'Mericans. All over England, taking over. Think we doan know what we're doing. How to fight a war. We fought wars 'fore they're born. Agincourt. Naseby. Fought their wars for them too, 'fore they rebelled. Won an Empire. All over world. Muss keep it. Not give it up to 'Mericans."

Donovan's eyes widened. "You want an English tunnel. All English."

"Yessir." Crittendon whacked his hand on the table - or would have if he had not missed it. "All English. No frogs. No fuzzies."

"What about Carter? He's an American, and he's the best of demolitions men."

"Muss be others, buttle keep Carter till we fine one."

Donovan digested the implications. "Group Captain, you can't do it. You can't have an All-English operation here."

Crittendon blinked owlishly. "Why not?"

"This is a polyglot camp. We've English, but we've also Scots, Irish, Welsh, French, Dutch, Poles, Norwegians, Australians and New Zealanders, and I don't know what all. Half the prisoners are American and Canadian. Most of them are not British blooded. Some of them have German, or Italian or Japanese parentage. The only thing that's held them together is Colonel Hogan's treating them alike and not disparaging them. That's why having Sergeant Kinchloe at his side was so good. They respected each other as colonel and sergeant, and as man and man.

"And these men have worked for this operation selflessly. They're tailors, forgers, scroungers, wig makers, tunnelers and dispersers, watchers and security, carpenters, cooks, medic's assistants. Out medic is an American: Sergeant Wilson. They're not going to give up their fight because they are not English enough for you. It's the only thing that keeps them going and the only thing that keeps them here."

"So we let them escape."

Donovan rolled his eyes in a plea for patience. "No, sir. We cannot. Every attempt means the Germans will sharpen security, which means no one can leave to blow up a bridge or rescue a downed flier. A success or two will mean Klink and Schultz are posted away and we get a kommandant and guards who are smarter and keener to prevent escapes -- and to capture spies and saboteurs."

He looked as deeply as he could into Crittendon's blurry eyes. "Please, Sir. Reconsider what you want."

---

Newkirk looked up, then swiveled from the switchboard. "So we can take out the lamp in the window now. The prodigal has returned home."

Kinch dropped his cap over the radio key and dropped his bottom on the nearby stool. "Jolly joker." He rubbed his face with both hands. "No word from Klink yet?"

Newkirk glanced back at the switchboard. "Not a dingle. Maybe he won't transfer Colonel Hogan. Just leave in the cooler."

Kinch grimaced. "Well, the Colonel will think up another plan. Crittendon in the Colonel's bed?"

Newkirk shook his head. "Burkitt is. We'd never have gotten Crittendon back without getting shot - him singing Rule Britannia at the top of his lungs, so Carter, Burkitt and I slung him into Burkitt's bunk and Burkitt came here."

He looked at Kinch. "Do you think he'll reconsider and stay?"

"With Crittendon here?" Now Kinch shook his head. "Crittendon outranks him. That means Crittendon will shoot down every idea he has. He'll blow up under that much pressure. Conflict. Court-martial. Ruin his career and tear apart our operation? No. He won't stay. I wouldn't."

Kinch dropped his head in his hands and sighed.

"Neither would I." Newkirk rose. "Not with a hero's welcome and lovely Hollywood birds waiting." He laid his hand on his friend's bowed shoulder. "He'll find a way out for us too. I know it."

"Oh, I believe. I just hope we'll survive until he does." He looked between his fingers. "I told Marlena to believe. I know he'll get her out, the moment he gets to London."

"And does she believe?"

"She said she did." Kinch raised his head. "I don't know what to make of her. I thought she'd be happy it's finally going to happen; but she looked ... she looked like I had given her a one way ticket to Hell."

"Who knows what to make of women?" Newkirk massaged the taut shoulder under his hand. Standing behind Kinch, he knew Kinch could not see his smile. "Maybe Marlena doesn't want to leave us?"

"Maybe she doesn't want to leave the kids at the hospital." The sergeant's lips thinned. "Well, she's got to. We've enough problems with Crittendon in charge."

"You're right. More than enough problems. We don't need those she's given us." Newkirk's smile widened.

"The Colonel will get her home, safe and sound."

"We'll never have to worry about her again. Probably never see her again, when she's back safe in Canada."

"Yeah. ... Yeah. I guess we won't see either of them, when they're home free." Newkirk heard the catch, and felt guilty for drawing him on.

He tried to think of some consoling, heartening words. He couldn't. Not with his own heart aching for losing Colonel Hogan as his guv'nor and friend. Not with his mind fretting that he was not as capable as Kinch, that he should not be doing Kinch's job, that everything will go into the dustbin because he wasn't smart enough to advise Crittendon and make it stick.

He opened his mouth to say something.

The switchboard buzzed and lit.

_"Reprieved!"_ Newkirk sighed as he shot back and grabbed the headphones a second ahead of Kinch. Kinch grabbed and plugged the line into Klink's office.

"Jah! Heil Hitler, Kommandant! Stalag Fifteen? Jawohl, Herr Kommandant. Right away."

Kinch pushed a notepad and pencil in front of Newkirk. Their eyes met.

"Get the details," Kinch whispered. "I'll radio the underground."


End file.
